- 

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TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 


YOU   CAN  ONLY  SEE  THE  SLEEPER'S  KNEES  ' 


TALES  OF  A 
GREEK  ISLAND 

BY 

JULIA  D.  DRAGOUMIS 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS 


We  came  to  an  isle  of  flowers 

That  lay  in  a  trance  of  sleep, 

In  a  world  forgotten  of  ours, 
Far  out  on  a  sapphire  deep. 

RENNELL  RODO 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

1912 


COPYRIGHT,   1912,   BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  April  zgrs 


STACK 
ANNEX 

ffi 

6007 


PREFACE 


THE  Author  has  been  told  that  these  few 
tales  of  a  Greek  Island  may  possibly  prove  of 
interest  to  English  readers,  and  it  is  with  this 
hope  that  she  has  written  them.  She  craves 
the  indulgence  of  the  public  for  one  writing 
in  a  foreign  language. 

JULIA  D.  DRAGOUMIS. 

ATHENS. 


CONTENTS 

I.  On  the  Hills  1 

II.    Under  the  Mulberries  50 

III.  In  the  Cave  100 

IV.  North  and  South  125 
V.   The  Stepmother  183 

VI.   The  Only  Son  of  his  Mother  226 

VII.    Vasili  278 

VIII.   BarbaStathi  814 

IX.    The  End  oj  the  Fairy  Tale  339 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  You  can  only  see  the  Sleeper's  knees  "  (p.  3) 

Frontispiece 

Watering  her  pots  of  sweet  basil  50 

"  You  can  search  ;  aye,  you  can  search  "  124 

The  inner  court  of  the  Monastery  240 

She  had  seen  the  mountains  all  her  life  342 

From  photographs  supplied  by  the  author 


TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 
I 

ON  THE  HILLS 

The  sapphire  mountains  fret  the  gold. 
These  more  than  mountains  here  — 

The  dream-hills  of  the  songs  of  old  — 
Cut  luminous  and  clear. 

RENNELL  ROOD. 

"So  the  King,"  wound  up  Maroussa,  "took 
the  Princess  by  the  hand,  the  beautiful  golden- 
haired  Princess,  whose  dress  was  as  the  sky  with 
all  its  stars,  and  gave  her  to  the  shepherd  boy 
for  his  wife,  and  they  lived  well,  and  we  still 
better." 

Metro  lifted  himself  slowly  from  the  flat  rock 
on  which  he  had  been  lying,  and  came  over  to 
the  shade  of  the  olive  tree. 

"That  was  a  good  tale,"  he  said;  "where  did 
you  hear  it?  " 

"Kyra  Photini  told  it  at  the  last  olive-picking; 
she  knows  many  tales." 

The  girl  leaned  her  head  against  the  trunk  of 
the  tree  and  wiped  her  face  unconcernedly  with 


2  TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

a  fold  of  her  yellow  cotton  frock.  It  was  a  hot 
day  even  for  Poros,  and  scarcely  three  hours 
past  noon.  Generally  they  were  not  on  the  hills 
at  this  time,  but  it  was  a  great  Saint's  day, 
there  was  no  school,  and  they  had  left  the  vil- 
lage quite  early.  They  meant  to  go  farther  still, 
up  to  one  of  the  sheep-folds  at  the  top  of  the  hill, 
where  Maroussa  had  a  message  to  give  one  of 
the  shepherds  from  her  grandmother,  but  they 
had  stopped  halfway,  just  above  Boudouri's 
stone  monument,  on  this  little  plateau. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  lower  slopes  of  the  hills, 
covered  with  lentisk  bushes,  and  many  of  Mar- 
oussa's  tales  had  been  told  under  the  shade  of  its 
solitary  olive  tree.  The  shining  expanse  of  the 
whole  Bay  of  Poros  lay  below  them,  with  the 
white  village  up  the  hill  on  their  left,  and  the 
entrance  to  the  port  on  their  right.  Far  away 
towards  Vithi  a  white  haze  hid  the  foot  of  the 
mountains,  and  the  summit  of  the  Sleeper  might 
have  been  mistaken  for  a  mass  of  cloud.  Metro 
stood  up,  crossed  his  hands  behind  his  head,  and 
looked  at  it. 

He  was  a  tall  boy,  with  a  long,  thin  face 
tanned  to  a  yellowish  brown  by  the  sun  and  the 
sea  wind  of  all  hours  and  seasons;  his  hair,  orig- 
inally a  darkish  brown,  had  been  bleached  to  al- 
most the  exact  color  of  his  skin;  the  eyes  were 


ON  THE  HILLS  3 

small,  and  the  rest  of  the  features  nondescript; 
something  only  about  his  chin,  and  the  cut  of 
his  lips,  gave  the  impression  that  he  always 
eventually  did  the  thing  he  wanted  to. 

"You  can  only  see  the  Sleeper's  knees,"  he 
said;  "her  head  is  all  hidden  in  the  clouds.  I 
like  her  best  after  sunset,  when  the  face  looks 
cut  out  of  stone  and  the  sky  behind  her  is  yel- 
low." 

"When  I  was  little,"  remarked  Maroussa, 
"I  used  to  wonder  why  they  called  this  moun- 
tain 'the  Sleeper/  I  never  could  see  the  face  at 
all,  and  then  you  made  me  see  it  one  evening 
down  there  at  the  'Little  Pines';  do  you  re- 
member? " 

"I  remember." 

"We  were  standing,"  she  continued,  "on  the 
old  anchor  to  see  better,  and  you  showed  me 
the  head  thrown  quite  back,  —  the  brow,  the 
nose,  and  the  lips,  then  the  rest  of  the  body 
lying  flat,  and  the  knees  drawn  up  sharply  just 
over  Vithi." 

Then,  after  a  pause:  — 

"I  am  rested  now;  come  up  to  the  stani, 
and  don't  leave  your  stick  behind  you,  Metro; 
we  shall  want  it,  perhaps,  for  the  dogs  up 
there." 

Metro,  who  generally  forgot  his  few  belong- 


4          TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

ings  wherever  they  happened  to  be  lying,  picked 
up  the  long  carved  crook  which  Lambro  the 
shepherd  had  once  given  him  in  gratitude  for 
the  seeking  and  finding  of  a  lost  kid,  and  followed 
her  up  the  hill  through  the  thick  scrub  of  lentisk 
and  thyme,  and  higher  still  through  the  young 
pines  and  the  oleanders. 

The  stani  with  its  flock  of  sheep  and  goats 
was  duly  reached,  and  the  message  delivered. 
As  they  started  again  on  their  downward  way, 
the  shepherd's  wife  called  out  after  them  to  fear 
nothing,  as  all  the  three  savage  sheep-dogs  were 
chained  up  and  only  let  loose  after  dark. 

"I  hope  their  chains  are  strong,"  said  Ma- 
roussa;  "the  other  day  that  big  yellow  dog  of 
Yanni's  broke  his  chain  and  bit  the  little  white 
dog." 

"Which  one?" 

"The  white  dog  with  the  pointed  ears,  that 
belongs  to  the  little  lady  at  the  red  house. 
I  saw  her  carrying  it,  and  its  leg  was  all  bleed- 
ing, and  then  her  father  came  and  beat  the  big 
dog." 

"He  ought  to  have  beaten  Yanni,"  said  Metro, 
very  decidedly;  "he  mends  his  broken  chains 
with  a  bit  of  rotten  rope,  and  then  when  the 
dog  bites  people  he  wears  a  stupid  look  and  says, 
'Is  it  my  fault?  the  beast  broke  loose!'" 


ON  THE  HILLS  5 

The  descent  was  stiff,  and  halfway  down  the 
hill  Maroussa  stopped  and  leaned  for  a  moment 
against  a  big  locust  tree.  Below  the  wall  that 
surrounded  the  pines  at  the  back  of  the  red  house, 
and  still  lower  below  old  Themistocli's  lemon 
orchards,  stretched  the  bay,  purple  close  to  the 
land,  but  blue-gray  in  the  distance,  and  con- 
stantly changing  under  the  shadows  of  the  swift- 
running  clouds.  Somewhere  on  the  hills  goat 
bells  were  tinkling,  and  close  by  in  the  pines  the 
tettix  chirped  loudly  and  persistently. 

The  girl  with  the  sunshine  on  her  yellow  frock, 
and  with  a  yellow  cotton  kerchief  of  her  grand- 
mother's covering  her  black  hair,  made  a  speck  of 
dazzlingly  bright  color  standing  against  the  vivid 
green  leaves  of  the  locust  tree. 

"Stay,"  said  Metro;  "you  look  —  you  look  — 
what  do  you  look  like?  Yes,  I  know,  like  one 
of  the  big  sunflowers  with  its  green  leaves  and 
black  heart.  When  I  am  big,  and  become  a 
schoolmaster,  and  have  money,  you  shall  have 
a  pink  frock,  and  a  pink  kerchief,  and  then  you 
will  look  like  an  oleander." 

"That  will  be  foolishness,"  said  Maroussa 
sagely;  "you  can  get  something  more  necessary 
with  your  money  when  you  have  any.  Kyria 
Evanthia  says  good  girls  must  not  think  of  or- 
namenting themselves.  She  said  it  to  Lenio's 


6          TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

Panouria  because  she  came  to  school  once  with 
an  apron  embroidered  in  blue  and  red." 

Poros  rejoiced  in  a  rabidly  utilitarian  school- 
mistress. 

"Nay,"  said  Metro,  "that  may  be  well  for 
ugly  girls  like  Panouria,  but  not  when  they  are 
pretty  like  you." 

This  remark  was  received  as  it  was  uttered, 
as  a  simple,  indisputable  fact,  but  Maroussa  was 
not  convinced. 

"Kyria  Evanthia,"  she  persisted,  "says  it 
does  not  matter  at  all  whether  we  are  pretty  or 
not,  and  she  says  if  the  ugly  girls  keep  modest, 
and  are  not  free-spoken,  and  learn  to  become 
good  housewives,  everybody  will  love  them 
better." 

"That  is  all  lies,"  said  Metro,  with  quiet  island 
directness;  "do  you  think  if  you  looked  like 
Lenio's  Panouria,  with  a  face  the  color  of  a  Good 
Friday  candle,  and  a  nose  that  was  begun  and 
never  finished,  that  any  one  would  care  the  same 
for  you  as  they  do  now?  I,  the  first,  would 
not." 

Maroussa  looked  bewildered:  this  was  very 
subversive  of  all  her  school-teaching. 

"But  if  I  were  very  useful  and  kind,  being 
ugly?" 

"Then  people  would  love  you  much  more 


ON  THE  HILLS  7 

than  another  ugly  girl  who  might  be  cross  and 
have  a  bad  heart;  that,  any  fool  understands. 
But  never  as  well  as  they  do  now  that  you  are 
good  to  look  at  —  that,  never;  put  it  out  of  your 
head  once  for  all.  It  is  always  so,  and  always 
will  be.  Why  did  the  stranger  lady  with  the 
white  hair,  the  one  who  came  from  England 
with  the  young  man,  her  son,  and  who  stayed 
at  Kyr  Charalambo's  hotel,  —  you  remember? 
—  why  did  she  at  once  choose  Yannoula's  An- 
driko  to  guide  them  up  the  hills  and  to  carry 
their  baskets  and  things?  Why?  I  was  stand- 
ing by  him  when  they  passed.  Is  he  stronger 
than  I?  Does  he  know  the  hills  better?  —  he, 
who  is  always  playing  in  the  village  and  never 
comes  near  them?  Can  he  run  faster?  —  No! 
only  he  has  a  head  like  the  marble  statues  that 
the  ancients  made,  and  people  like  to  look  at 
him.  Now,  come,"  he  continued,  as  though  the 
question  had  been  finally  settled  beyond  any 
further  controversy,  "let  us  go,  that  we  may 
be  down  at  Barba  Nicola's  before  the  dark 
falls." 

When  they  got  to  the  primitive  little  wine- 
shop close  to  the  shore,  where  they  had  left 
their  basket  for  greater  convenience  in  climb- 
ing, they  found  Barba  Nicola  himself,  fat,  dirty, 
and  comfortable,  sitting  on  his  doorstep;  he 


8          TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

smiled  at  Maroussa  and  pointed  over  his  shoul- 
der with  his  thumb  to  where  the  basket  hung  on 
a  nail  out  of  harm's  way,  under  a  string  of  onions 
and  over  a  supposed  portrait  of  Athanasius 
Diakos  printed  in  gorgeous  colors. 

Barba  Nicola  never  wasted  energy  in  speech 
if  he  could  possibly  avoid  it.  Kyra  Sophoula, 
Maroussa's  grandmother,  used  to  say  of  him 
that,  if  he  had  ever  in  his  youth  contemplated 
taking  a  wife,  he  would  have  contented  himself 
by  smiling  at  the  girl  and  pointing  to  the  mar- 
riage wreath. 

A  beautiful  pure  white  cat,  engaged  in  licking 
her  kitten,  shared  the  doorstep  with  him.  This 
cat  was  an  institution  at  Barba  Nicola's,  a 
sailor  having  brought  her  from  foreign  parts 
a  good  many  years  ago,  and  having  left  her  to 
the  old  man  as  part  payment  of  an  unpaid  score. 
One  of  the  young  officers  from  the  Naval  School 
close  by  had  once  amused  himself  by  painting 
a  rough  portrait  of  her  which  hung  over  the 
door  of  the  hut  in  lieu  of  signpost,  and  had  made 
it  known  as  the  wineshop  of  the  "White  Cat" 
ever  since. 

Metro  unhooked  the  basket  and  the  two  went 
lower  down  the  shore  nearer  the  sea. 

The  fishers  of  the  trata  were  still  there,  and 
the  children  stood  for  a  moment  watching  the 


9 

sunburnt,  bare-limbed  men  and  boys  all  pulling 
together  at  the  ropes  of  the  long  net.  The  first 
of  the  line  were  halfway  up  the  shore,  and  the 
last  nearly  waist-high  in  the  water.  The  setting 
sun  made  glistening  patches  on  the  wet  brown 
limbs,  as  the  men  planted  their  legs  well  apart 
and  bent  their  bodies  back  to  get  a  better  grip 
of  the  ropes. 

No  amount  of  familiarity  with  the  sight  could 
ever  drag  the  children  away  from  a  trata  be- 
fore the  big  net  squirming  with  little  fishes  was 
brought  on  shore;  so  they  stayed  now  till  the 
division  of  the  sardines  from  the  rest  had  taken 
place,  and  the  men  had  commenced  lighting  a 
fire  to  cook  their  supper.  Then  only  did  the 
two  bethink  themselves  of  their  own. 

Outside  the  gate  that  led  to  the  red  house  they 
sat,  under  the  old  fig  tree,  and  pulled  out  of  the 
basket  a  good  quarter  of  the  large-sized  brown- 
ish Poros  loaf,  and  a  bunch  of  redfraoula  grapes, 
Metro  adding  to  the  feast  out  of  the  folds  of 
a  blue  checked  handkerchief,  slung  round  his 
waist,  two  big  tomatoes  and  an  onion. 

It  was  very  hot  still,  and  to  listen  to  the  cool 
soft  lapping  of  the  waves  on  the  shore  seemed  to 
bring  a  little  relief. 

Presently  two  dogs  from  the  red  house,  a  tiny 
white  one  with  upright  pointed  ears,  and  a  big 


10         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

black  poodle,  came  running  down  through  the 
mimosas  and  aloes,  pushed  open  the  gate,  and 
came  sniffing  around  them.  Maroussa  made 
friendly  overtures  with  pieces  of  her  bread.  The 
little  one  just  smelt  at  it  and  ran  off  disdainfully, 
much  to  her  disappointment.  "Wilt  thou  not 
eat,  then,  thou  little  beast?"  she  called  after 
him.  But  the  poodle  comforted  her  by  accept- 
ing the  offering,  and  standing  patiently  beside 
her,  while  she  stroked  his  black  curls  and  won- 
dered at  his  shaven  hind  quarters. 

The  short  Greek  twilight  had  already  set  in 
before  they  turned  their  backs  on  the  red  house 
and  started  along  the  shore  homeward.  It  was 
quite  dark  when  they  crossed  the  empty  market- 
place, passed  under  the  dark  arch,  climbed  up 
the  rocky  street,  and  reached  the  narrow  paved 
courtyard  of  the  little  house  where  Maroussa's 
grandmother,  Kyra  Sophoula,  had  lived  for 
over  fifty  years. 

Maroussa  was  her  only  grandchild,  the  orphan 
daughter  of  her  last  surviving  son,  who  had 
been  drowned  at  sea. 

Kyra  Sophoula  had  been  left  a  widow  very 
young,  with  three  small  boys.  Her  husband 
having  worked  in  the  Navy,  she  had  a  small 
pension  after  his  death,  but  very  small,  indeed; 
nothing  like  enough  to  live  on,  even  with  the 


ON  THE  HILLS  11 

Utmost  frugality  and  the  best  of  management. 
And  she  was  a  good  manager,  no  doubt  about 
that;  strong,  capable,  hardworking,  making  the 
most  of  everything,  and  proud  with  it  all,  never 
carrying  her  troubles  to  the  fountain  to  discuss 
them  with  the  other  women;  as  the  neighbors 
said,  she  was  of  the  kind  who  eat  dry  bread  and 
call  it  a  carnival  feast.  Fortunately  she  had  a, 
little  lemon  orchard  on  the  mainland  which  had 
been  her  own  dowry,  and  this  was  a  considerable 
help  when  the  trees  bore  well.  Also  she  collected 
herbs  and  simples,  and  was  accounted  very  wise 
in  their  use. 

Her  two  elder  boys  had  both  died  in  early 
childhood;  the  third,  a  sailor,  had  grown  into 
a  tall,  handsome,  black-haired  youth,  and  in 
due  time  had  married  well,  but  his  wife  died  at 
Maroussa's  birth,  and  he  went  back  to  the  sea, 
leaving  the  infant  to  his  mother.  And  when  six 
months  later  the  news  came  that  he  had  gone 
down  with  his  ship  off  Genoa,the  poor  old  woman 
in  the  midst  of  her  grief  was  still  thankful  that 
she  had  his  child  left  to  live  and  work  for,  and 
had  not  been  left  all  alone  in  the  world,  like  old 
Barba  Stathi,  the  donkey-man. 

Maroussa  had  been  scarcely  five  when  Metro, 
a  pale  little  lad  of  about  seven,  with  frightened 
eyes,  first  came  to  sleep  in  the  little  outhouse 


12         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

off  the  kitchen  and  to  share  the  more  than  simple 
food  of  the  household. 

There  was  really  no  excuse  for  Kyra  Sophoula 
taking  him  in.  No  shadow  of  the  most  distant 
relationship  could  be  adduced  even  in  this  land 
where  a  second  or  third  cousinship  constitutes 
a  strong  claim  to  help  and  protection.  She  had 
known  his  people  well,  that  was  all.  His  mater- 
nal grandfather,  belonging  to  one  of  the  old 
families  of  heroic  Hydra,  had  settled  in  Poros 
after  the  Revolution;  since  then,  hard  times  and 
many  daughters  to  marry  had  brought  the  fam- 
ily fortunes  to  a  low  ebb. 

Kyra  Sophoula  remembered  the  early  en- 
gagement and  happy  marriage  of  Metro's  par- 
ents; she  had  helped  his  young  mother,  poor 
Anthi,  when  she  had  lost  her  husband,  while 
still  almost  a  child,  had  been  her  prop  and  stay 
during  her  miserable  widowhood,  had  nursed 
her  through  her  last  illness,  and  afterwards 
could  not  endure  to  see  her  little  child,  Metro,  in 
the  power  of  his  father's  elder  brother,  a  drunken 
brute  of  a  man  who  worked  in  old  Louka's  boats 
when  he  was  sober  enough,  and  who  had  taken 
charge  of  the  boy  after  Anthi's  death. 

Poros  is  a  small  place;  the  men  meet  daily  at 
the  coffee-house  and  the  women  at  the  fountain; 
so  that  Kyra  Sophoula  could  not  choose  but 


ON  THE  HILLS  13 

hear  tales  of  this  man's  neglect  of  the  child  when 
he  was  sober,  and  ill-treatment  of  him  when  mad- 
dened by  too  many  glasses  of  masticha  or  the 
still  more  potent  ouzo.  She  bore  it  for  a  few 
months,  moved  by  the  instinctive  respect  of  all 
Greeks  of  her  class  for  the  claims  of  relationship. 
"The  man  is  a  brute,  and  a  sot,"  she  would 
say,  "but  after  all  he  is  the  child's  uncle,  and 
blood  cannot  be  turned  into  water." 

•  But  when  she  found  the  little  fellow  in  the 
cold  rain  of  a  winter's  evening,  sobbing  with 
hunger,  and  begging  for  a  piece  of  bread  from 
Sotiro,  the  coffee-house  keeper,  who  was  not 
a  tender-hearted  man,  and  discovered  that  he 
had  been  kicked  out  of  the  house  by  his  uncle 
in  a  fit  of  drunken  rage,  she  could  resist  no 
longer. 

•  Anthi's  child  a  beggar!   Anthi's  child  shiver- 
ing and  wet,  exposed  to  Sotiro's  rebuffs!  The 
blood  rushed  to  her  old  brown  face  at  the  sight. 
.'    "Come  home  with  me,  my  little  bird,"  she 
said;  "I  will  take  you.  Never  mind  the  bad  man 
—  come,  you  shall  take  care  of  Maroussa,  and 
play  with  her,  and  when  you  have  sat  by  the 
manghali  to  get  warm,  I  have  dry  figs  for  both 
of  you.    If  your  uncle  wants  you  back,  let  him 
come  for  you!    It  is  with  me  he  will  have  to 
speak." 


14         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

But  he  never  came,  being  only  too  glad  to  be 
rid  of  the  child.  Less  than  a  year  later  he  got  a 
knife  stuck  into  him,  in  a  drunken  brawl  at  the 
fairatVithi.  No  one  made  much  fuss.  Was  there 
ever  a  fair  without  a  knife-thrust  or  two  before 
the  end?  His  had  gone  a  little  too  deep,  that 
was  all!  Kyra  Sophoula  was  undisguisedly  re- 
lieved to  be  able  to  say  of  him,  "God  rest  his 
soul."  Nevertheless,  Metro  wore  a  decent  black 
cotton  pinafore  at  school  for  nearly  two  years 
after  the  event.  "  It  was  only  proper,"  said  Kyra 
Sophoula.  Moreover,  it  showed  the  dirt  less. 

So  Metro  stayed  with  the  old  woman  and  the 
child  as  though  absolutely  belonging  to  them. 
He  took  to  his  books  like  a  bee  to  honey,  and 
helped  to  earn  a  few  lepta  out  of  school  hours, 
being  handy  and  less  lazy  than  most  of  the  Pori- 
ote  lads,  by  reason  of  the  Hydra  blood  in  his 
veins. 

Of  course  they  worked  hard  and  fared  poorly. 
Flour  was  often  dear,  and  there  was  very  little 
to  eat  with  the  bread,  except  a  few  olives,  and 
an  onion,  or  a  tomato  in  summer.  Sometimes 
in  autumn  when  Kyra  Sophoula  took  Maroussa 
with  her  to  work  at  the  olive-picking  on  the 
mainland,  the  masters  of  the  oil-press  would 
give  her  a  little  good  oil  to  take  home  with  her, 
and  then  she  would  spread  some  for  the  chil- 


ON  THE  HILLS  15 

dren  on  their  bread,  or  cook  herbs  with  it  for 
supper. 

However,  both  Metro  and  Maroussa  seemed 
to  thrive,  and  the  brave  little  woman  managed 
to  keep  them  well,  even  during  that  year  when 
she  was  too  crippled  by  rheumatism  to  knead 
their  own  dough,  and  they  had  to  depend  on 
bought  bread,  which  as  every  one  knows  is  much 
dearer  and  not  half  so  nourishing.  At  the  foun- 
tain a  Poriote  housewife's  reputation  for  thrift- 
iness  and  good  management  is  very  seriously 
impaired  by  the  contemptuous  sentence,  "She 
buys  her  bread."  However,  in  Kyra  Soph- 
oula's  case  extenuating  circumstances  were  ad- 
mitted. That  was  a  bad  year  certainly,  and 
one  not  to  be  easily  forgotten,  but  Kyr  Apostoli, 
the  baker,  was  not  a  hard  man,  and  gave  credit 
till  the  season  came  for  the  lemons  to  ripen,  so 
that  there  had  always  been  something,  if  not 
enough,  to  eat,  and  a  drop  of  oil  for  the  hang- 
ing lamp  before  the  sacred  icons  of  the  Virgin 
and  St.  Nicholas.  Besides,  as  Kyra  Sophoula 
would  say,  "Where's  the  merit  of  managing 
when  all  goes  as  you  wish?  'T  is  the  storm  shows 
the  good  captain." 

Life  had  been  easier  in  a  way,  the  last  year  or 
two,  since  the  children  had  been  growing  up. 
Metro  got  more  odd  jobs,  and  Maroussa  stayed 


16         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

at  home  from  school  in  the  afternoon  and  did 
most  of  the  housework,  so  that  her  grandmother 
had  more  time  to  go  after  herbs  and  simples. 

With  her  basket  on  her  left  arm,  and  a  little 
blunt  wooden-handled  knife  in  her  hand,  day 
after  day  the  wiry  little  figure  trod  the  lower 
slopes  of  the  hills,  or  penetrated  into  the  deep- 
est ravines,  stooping  and  rising,  and  stooping 
again,  and  gradually  filling  her  basket  with 
anise,  sage  leaves,  caper  buds,  dandelion  roots, 
and  various  other  edible  plants.  But  besides 
these,  which  any  one  could  be  trusted  to  re- 
cognize and  pick,  she  knew  the  special  grow- 
ing and  hiding  places  of  many  simples  that  most 
would  pass  by  unnoticed,  —  the  root  of  the  wild 
onion,  the  young  leaves  of  the  dragon  plant 
growing  by  the  roots  of  the  locust  tree  or  be- 
tween the  arbutus  branches,  and  the  black- 
stemmed  fern  in  the  damp  places,  which  makes 
such  a  good  drink  for  women  in  childbed. 

Many  of  these  herbs,  after  having  been  dried, 
some  in  the  sun  and  some  in  the  shade,  accord- 
ing to  their  nature,  hung  in  garlands  round  the 
walls  of  the  little  kitchen  below  the  strings  of 
onions  and  pomegranates  hanging  there  for 
winter  use. 

Kyra  Sophoula  had  just  finished  spreading 
her  day's  harvest  to  dry,  and  was  looking  out 


ON  THE  HILLS  17 

for  the  children.  She  stood,  spindle  in  hand, 
outside  the  covered  terrace,  at  the  top  of  the 
ladder-like  wooden  stairs  which  led  up  to  it. 

"Welcome,"  she  said  first,  as  she  never 
omitted  doing,  after  any  absence,  whether  long 
or  short;  and  then  looking  directly  at  Metro, 
who  had  stopped  below  to  tighten  his  belt:  "I 
spoke  to  Louka  this  evening:  he  was  sitting  out- 
side Sotiro's  as  I  passed." 

The  boy  looked  up  quickly. 

"Well?" 

"If  you  give  all  your  time  to  the  boats,  he 
says  you  shall  have  eighty  lepta  a  day  and 
your  bread.  Later  on,  when  you  are  more  of  a 
man,  and  strong,  it  will  be  more." 
;  Maroussa  was  already  on  the  terrace,  folding 
up  the  yellow  kerchief  she  had  taken  off. 

"He  is  strong  now,"  she  said;  "he  can  throw 
Dino,  who  is  bigger." 

Metro  climbed  up  the  stairs  slowly  and  stood 
beside  the  old  woman. 

"We  spoke  of  half  the  day,"  he  said. 

"I  told  Louka  that,"  she  answered,  "but  he 
would  not  have  it  at  all;  how  can  he  know,  he 
says,  at  what  hour  the  work  presses;  sometimes 
he  might  want  you  in  the  forenoon,  sometimes 
late.  And  he  and  Sotiro  and  Kyra  Marina,  who 
was  standing  by,  for  there  are  never  two  but 


18 

she  makes  a  third,  all  asked  what  was  the  use 
of  keeping  the  half -day  free  for  the  school,  a  big 
boy  like  you,  and  if  you  had  not  had  learning 
enough  already?  —  and  more  than  enough.  I 
told  them  you  want  to  learn  more,  to  become 
a  schoolmaster  some  day,  but  Sotiro,  he  said  a 
schoolmaster's  is  a  mighty  poor  trade,  with  little 
money  in  it,  and  Louka  said  also  that  if  you 
worked  well  in  the  boats  and  were  a  good  lad, 
who  knows  but  that  some  day  you  might  have 
a  share  in  the  profits.  And  he  makes  money 
now,  does  Louka,  no  doubt  about  that,  Metro. 
He  has  five  large  boats  that  meet  the  steamers, 
and  three  little  ones,  and  eleven  men  work  for 
him." 

She  waited  for  an  answer,  but  none  came. 
Metro  passed  into  the  room  and  took  out  his 
school-books  from  the  lower  shelf  of  a  corner 
cupboard  painted  bright  green.  Kyra  Sophoula 
waited  till  he  had  piled  them  on  the  top  of  the 
old  chest,  and  drawn  up  his  stool,  and  then  asked 
tentatively:  — 

"What  do  you  say,  then,  my  lad?" 

Metro  had  already  opened  a  book,  and  with 
his  finger  on  the  page  looked  up. 

"We  can  talk  of  the  matter  later  if  you  will 
• —  I  have  much  to  study  to-night." 

The  old  woman  nodded  and  returned  to  her 


ON  THE  HILLS  19 

spinning.  Maroussa  got  out  her  knitting  and 
there  was  silence  for  a  time. 

It  was  a  quaint  old  room  with  whitewashed 
walls  and  a  curious  dark  wooden  ceiling  carved 
in  lozenges.  It  had  been  built  in  the  days  when 
people  lived  belowstairs  in  the  cold  days,  and 
only  came  up  here  for  coolness  in  the  summer, 
so  that  six  windows,  with  their  deep  window 
sills  of  old  flowered  tiles,  were  pierced  in  the 
thick  walls.  In  fact,  Kyra  Sophoula  had  been 
obliged  to  board  up  one  entirely  to  make  room 
for  her  long  sofa  with  its  embroidered  linen 
cover,  —  the  place  of  honor  for  a  visitor  of  any 
importance.  There  was  little  furniture  besides 
this  sofa,  the  two  quaint  green  corner  cupboards, 
the  old  highly  polished  wooden  dower  chest,  a 
high  square  table,  its  legs  joined  by  cross-bars, 
and  a  few  straw  chairs  and  stools.  The  door 
leading  to  the  little  kitchen  was  ajar,  and  close 
by  it  the  light  of  the  small  oil  lamp  which  hung 
before  the  holy  icons  of  the  Virgin  and  St. 
Nicholas  showed  in  the  dimness  beyond  little 
specks  of  reddish  gold,  being  the  high  lights  of 
Kyra  Sophoula's  cherished  copper  pans  and 
oven  trays. 

Suddenly  Metro  looked  impatiently  through 
two  of  his  paper-covered  books,  referred  to  some 
notes  scribbled  on  bits  of  rough  gray  packing- 


20         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND1 

paper,  bit  his  pencil,  and  came  to  a  frowning 
standstill.  He  had  been  obliged  to  miss  school 
for  a  day,  to  help  Kyra  Sophoula  in  the  digging 
of  the  ditches  round  the  lemon  trees  in  her  little 
orchard,  and  he  had  come  to  a  passage  in  his 
Xenophon  which  he  had  not  heard  the  master 
explain:  he  seized  the  general  meaning  well 
enough,  but  there  were  two  tenses  which  puzzled 
him,  and  at  least  three  words  he  had  never  met 
before.  A  dictionary  was  a  luxury  far  beyond 
his  means,  and  he  depended  entirely  on  the  mas- 
ter's explanation  and  his  own  good  memory. 

Maroussa  suggested  that  their  neighbor  Yan- 
noula's  boy,  Andriko,  having  been  to  school  on 
the  day  Metro  had  been  absent,  might  be  of 
some  help. 

"He  never  listens  to  the  master,"  said  Metro; 
"he  will  not  know  it." 

Now  it  happened  that  Kyra  Sophoula's  pride 
had  often  suffered  in  Andriko's  lovely  childhood 
at  hearing  him  compared  by  the  neighbors  to 
Metro,  to  the  latter's  distinct  disadvantage. 
Had  Metro  been  her  son  or  grandson,  island 
courtesy  would  have  prevented  her  hearing 
any  unflattering  remarks;  but,  as  it  was,  "poor 
Anthi's  ugly  boy"  was  often  spoken  of  before 
her  in  the  same  breath  as  Yannoula's  "little 
angel."  Consequently,  now  that  Metro  was 


ON  THE  HELLS  21 

recognized  as  the  best  and  Andriko  as  one  of  the 
worst  of  Kyr  Vangheli's  scholars,  she  cherished 
the  most  profound  disdain  for  Andriko's  in- 
tellectual acquirements. 

"Not  know  it!"  she  echoed;  "is  there  ever 
anything  Andriko  does  not  know!  Now  Metro 
here  can  do  a  few  things  well,  and  he  knows  it; 
also,  he  knows  what  he  cannot  do.  Anastasi, 
Louka's  boy,  is  clever  on  sea,  and  dull  on  land, 
and  he  does  not  deny  it.  Tasso  Vrondelli,  poor 
little  lame  one,  can  do  nothing  at  all,  and 
he  knows  it.  But  Andriko!  he  knows  every- 
thing that  can  be  known.  Why,  he'd  show  his 
grandfather  how  to  prune  his  own  vines,  he 
would!" 

Metro  puzzled  over  his  lesson  a  little  longer, 
and  then  in  disgust  gave  up  trying  to  understand 
that  part  alone. 

"If  only  the  master  were  here,"  he  sighed. 
"Ah,  those  lucky  boys  at  the  red  house!  —  the 
master  goes  every  day  to  teach  them,  every  day 
for  them  alone,  even  in  the  holidays!" 

"Well,  they  don't  think  themselves  so  lucky," 
put  in  Maroussa.  "/  know,  for  Dino,  Yoryi  the 
blind  one's  son,  told  me.  He  was  there  at  the 
little  landing-stage  of  the  red  house.  Some  cases 
had  come  from  the  steamer  in  one  of  Louka's 
boats,  and  he  was  minding  it  while  his  father 


22         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

and  Panayi  carried  the  cases  up  the  stone  stairs, 
and  the  boys  of  the  house  were  swimming  all 
round  the  boat  and  asking  Dino  to  row  out  and 
let  them  hold  on  behind,  when  the  master's 
boat  came  in  sight;  and  the  big  boy  called  out  to 
the  other  one,  *  Come  quickly  in  and  dress,  there 's 
the  master.'  And  he,  the  second  one,  said,  'The 
old  stupid !  he 's  always  coming.  Can't  he  be  ill 
some  day?" 

"Pa!  pa!  pa!"  exclaimed  Kyra  Sophoula, 
who  was  listening  to  their  talk;  "that  is  a  great 
sin  to  wish  any  one  to  fall  ill.  Don't  their 
parents  teach  them  better  words?" 

Maroussa  laughed. 

"Oh,  but,  Yiayia,  he  did  not  mean  badly,  only 
just  to  get  away  from  his  lesson.  They  are  good 
boys,  and  they  gave  Dino  a  jacket  that  was 
quite  new,  and  it  had  a  knife  in  the  pocket,  and 
they  said  he  could  keep  it  for  his  own,  when 
Yoryi  made  him  take  it  back,  and  the  little 
ladies  gave  him  sweet  bread  with  currants  in  it, 
and  oh,  a  lot  of  other  things." 

"He  that  has  much  pepper  puts  it  on  cab- 
bages also,"  said  Kyra  Sophoula  sagely. 

Metro  was  standing  on  the  little  whitewashed 
terrace  early  next  morning,  tying  up  his  books 
for  school;  that  is  to  say,  his  pile  of  books  was 
before  him  on  the  ledge,  and  a  piece  of  string  in 


ON  THE  HILLS  23 

his  hand,  but  he  was  not  looking  at  either;  he 
was  looking  at  the  hills. 

Beyond  the  red  and  brown  roofs  and  the  shin- 
ing line  of  the  sea,  they  lay  with  their  ridges 
softened  and  their  hollows  transparently  blue 
in  the  morning  haze.  From  quite  a  tiny  child 
Metro  had  loved  to  watch  them  rising  in  gentle 
undulations  to  the  sky,  with  the  red  earth  show- 
ing in  patches  amidst  the  soft  gray  blur  of 
olives  at  their  base. 

Kyra  Sophoula  was  watering  her  pots  of  sweet 
basil  before  the  great  heat  began. 

Metro  looked  at  her,  and  then  he  started  ty- 
ing up  his  books;  twice  he  let  them  fall  from  the 
string  and  twice  he  picked  them  up.  When  his 
parcel  was  quite  firm,  he  took  two  or  three  steps 
towards  the  stairs,  retraced  them,  and  looked 
once  more  at  the  sturdy  little  bent  figure  with 
her  pinned-up  skirts  and  big  painted  jug  full  of 
water:  at  last,  standing  a  little  behind  her,  he 
said,  "Concerning  what  Louka  wants  of  me, 
for  the  boats,  Kyra  Sophoula,  I  cannot  do  it." 

Though  to  all  intents  and  purposes  as  much 
her  grandchild  as  Maroussa,  he  had  never 
called  her  "Yiayia." 

The  old  woman  turned  round.  There  was 
trouble  in  his  eyes. 

"Very  well,"  she  answered  simply,  "we  will 


24         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

tell  him  so.  Do  you  think  I  would  have  you 
wear  out  your  heart  at  work  for  which  you  are 
not  made?  If  you  cannot,  you  cannot,  and  it  is 
ended.  But  since  we  are  talking,  let  us  talk  well. 
For  this  place  with  Louka  in  the  boats,  I  could 
have  got  it  for  you,  as  you  see;  even  if  you  had 
wanted  to  work  on  the  big  estate  over  on  the 
mainland,  I  could  have  spoken  to  the  master 
who  knew  your  father.  But  to  become  a  school- 
master, as  you  wish!  that  is  another  priest's 
gospel.  There  is  more  needed,  —  you  must  be 
older  first,  and  then  you  must  learn  even  more 
than  you  know  now,  is  it  not  true?" 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Metro;  "  I  must  learn  more, 
very  much  more.  I  must  follow  the  classes  of 
the  Gymnasium,  and  also  of  the  University,  if 
I  can." 

"But  —  that  is  not  here?" 

"No,  it  is  not  here." 

"You  must  go  away,  then?  —  perhaps  even 
to  Athens?" 

"Yes,  to  Athens." 

"Kyr  Sotiro  and  Louka  —  they  are  old  men 
and  have  seen  something  of  the  world  —  said 
if  you  would  not  work  in  the  boats  as  your 
father  and  your  uncles  did,  and  went  away  to 
read  more  books,  people  would  call  you  a  coward 
and  a  weakling."  • 


ON  THE  HILLS  25 

"That  is  foolish  talk.  You  are  wise,  Kyra  So- 
phoula,  but  wisdom  does  not  always  come  with 
many  years." 

"No,  it  does  not,"  sighed  the  old  woman, 
"more's  the  pity.  If  Sotiro  or  Louka  speak 
again,  I  shall  tell  them  it  is  foolishness.  Are  we 
of  their  house  that  we  should  be  frightened  of 
them?  If  you  wish  it,  you  shall  go,  my  child. 
But  in  Athens,  now  —  tell  me.  It  is  a  great 
town,  they  say.  How  will  you  live?  We  are 
poor  people,  but  you  have  always  had  a  roof 
over  your  head,  and  there  has  been  sufficient 
bread." 

"The  schoolmaster,  Kyr  Vangheli,  has  told 
me  what  I  must  do.  When  he  came  young  to 
Athens  from  Missolonghi  he  did  the  same.  There 
are  many  people  who  take  in  poor  boys,  give 
them  food  and  a  bed,  and  let  them  go  to  school 
in  the  day.  After  school  and  in  the  evenings  the 
boys  do  what  work  they  can  for  them.  I  shall 
find  a  house  where  I  may  serve  in  this  way.  I 
am  strong,  you  know  it,  and  I  can  work  at  any- 
thing; perhaps  even  there  may  be  small  chil- 
dren that  I  can  help  with  their  preparation,  and 
in  the  day  I  will  learn  —  I  will  learn  everything 
that  they  can  teach  me;  and  you  know  I  shall 
be  working  under  real  professors  —  professors 
of  the  University!" 


26        TALES  OP  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"But  you  will  not  forget  us,  my  lad,  will  you? 
—  nor  that  my  house  is  your  house  always?" 

"Never." 

"It  will  be  hard  and  strange  with  no  man  in 
the  house,  —  for  are  you  not  nigh  a  man  now? 
But  we  shall  manage,  the  girl  and  I." 

"It  shall  be  no  loss  that  I  go.  When  I  am  a 
man  grown,  and  have  learnt  much,  then  I  shall 
return  for  always  and  bring  you  many  gifts,  and 
marry  Maroussa." 

"Nay,  I  want  no  gifts.  I  am  old;  you  will 
marry  Maroussa,  yes,  and  bring  the  gifts  to 
her." 

"You  know  it?" 

"Do  you  think  I  am  blind,  then?  Praise  be 
to  God,  I  see  well.  Times  are  changed:  townfolk 
have  come  to  the  island  and  brought  their  cus- 
toms with  them;  had  it  been  in  my  days,  you 
would  have  been  already  betrothed.  Why, 
when  your  mother  was  promised  to  your  father, 
they  were  but  so  high.  Did  you  not  know  it?" 

"Were  they  so  small  then?" 

Metro  had  heard  the  story  many  a  time,  but 
he  knew  the  old  woman  would  be  sadly  disap- 
pointed at  not  telling  it  once  more. 

"Eh,  I  remember  it,  as  though  it  were  yester- 
day," she  began;  "it  was  Palm  Sunday,  we  were 
returning  from  the  church  with  the  palms  in  our 


ON  THE  HILLS  27 

hands,  and  as  we  passed  your  grandfather's, 
Kyr  Demetri's,  house,  we  saw  they  had  opened 
the  door  wide,  and  also  the  shutters  of  the  sola, 
which  as  you  understand  did  not  happen  every 
day.  Kyr  Demetri  saw  us  and  called  us  in. 
'Come  in,  friends,'  he  said;  'come  all  of  you  to 
our  joy.'  We  went  into  the  sala,  and  I  saw  that 
the  silken  sheets  had  been  spread  on  the  sofa, 
and  that  the  trays  with  the  sweets,  and  the 
syrup,  and  the  masticha  were  all  ready  to  hand 
round,  with  the  silver  spoons,  in  their  cups.  Also 
there  were  many  relations  assembled.  Your 
mother's  mother,  Chryssi,  —  God  rest  her  soul ! 
—  was  there  too.  I  had  never  seen  her  yet,  as  it 
was  not  long  she  had  arrived  from  Hydra.  A 
fine  woman  she  was,  with  big  blue  eyes,  a  skin 
that  you  would  say  the  sun  had  never  seen,  and 
hair  like  the  silk  that  grows  on  Indian  corn,  so 
that  folks  used  to  say  she  was  *  Chryssi '  in  name 
and  chryssi  to  look  at.  Eh,  but  she  was  like  a 
picture  that  day,  with  all  her  best  clothes  on,  in 
honor  of  the  great  day  it  was.  And  the  Hydra 
costume  was  much  finer  than  ours.  Her  heavy 
silken  skirt  hung  in  pleats  around  her,  the  short 
red  velvet  jacket  with  its  long  sleeves  was  em- 
broidered in  gold,  and  the  bouletsi  on  her  head 
was  of  such  fine  transparent  silk  that,  though  it 
was  very  long  and  draped  over  her  shoulders,  you 


28         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

could  have  passed  it  through  a  ring.  She  was 
wild  with  joy,  crying  and  laughing  together,  and 
she  could  not  sit  still  in  the  place  of  honor  on 
the  sofa  where  Kyr  Demetri  had  placed  her,  but 
without  giving  a  thought  to  her  silken  gown, 
down  she  goes  on  her  knees  before  Tasso,  your 
father,  to  see  him  better,  he  was  such  a  little 
one,  and  she  put  both  her  arms  round  him  and 
kissed  him;  and  she  says,  *  Tasso,  I  shall  make 
you  my  son-in-law,  and  when  you  grow  a  big 
man,  you  shall  marry  my  Anthi,  say,  will  you?' 
And  he,  the  little  one,  only  so  high,  he  opened 
wide  his  big  black  eyes  and  he  looked  at  her 
well;  then  with  his  little  soft  hand  he  stroked 
her  cheek,  and  he  said  as  wisely  as  a  grown  man, 
*When  she  is  a  maid,  if  she  be  beautiful  like 
you,  then  I  will  marry  her,  yes.'  Just  fancy  the 
sense  of  the  little  lad,  and  he  not  seven  years  old. 
He  said  it  just  in  the  words  I  tell  you;  as  though 
it  were  yesterday  I  remember  them:  'If  she  be 
beautiful  like  you,  then  I  will  marry  her,  yes."] 
-  Kyra  Sophoula  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
with  an  effort  brought  herself  back  to  the  pre- 
sent. 

"And  when  will  you  go,  my  Metro?" 
"I  should  like  to  go  soon.    The  Gymnasium 
classes  begin  in  September;  but  it  cannot  be  yet; 
I  must  wait." 


ON  THE  HILLS  29 

"Why?" 

"There  must  be  a  little  money  for  food,  and 
a  bed,  till  I  can  find  a  house  to  serve  in,  and 
though  one  does  not  pay  for  the  classes,  there 
is  a  little  sum  to  give  when  the  name  is  inscribed. 
I  have  eleven  drachmas  saved  from  last  year 
when  I  helped  at  the  oil-press,  but  it  is  not 
enough.  I  must  wait  till  I  can  get  more.  Per- 
haps they  may  let  me  help  again  at  the  oil-press, 
but  it  is  a  bad  olive  year:  they  will  not  need 
many  workers." 

"How  much  more  money  will  you  require?" 

"Much  more,  twenty-five  drachmas,  perhaps 
thirty." 

"And  it  would  be  better  for  your  work  there 
to  go  soon?" 

"Much  better,  yes.  If  I  am  not  there  from 
the  commencement  of  the  classes,  the  other 
pupils  will  know  more.  But  I  must  wait." 

Kyra  Sophoula  did  not  go  herb  picking  that 
morning.  As  soon  as  Metro  had  left,  she  locked 
the  door  leading  to  the  terrace,  hiding  the  key 
under  the  big  myrtle  bush  where  the  children 
would  find  it  should  they  return  before  her, 
and  went  out.  Down  the  narrow  rocky  street, 
between  the  morning  rubbish  heaps  and  the 
mingled  odors,  she  threaded  her  way,  passed 
under  the  dark  stone  arch  where  the  little 


SO         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

hunchback  shoemaker  was  busy  at  work  out- 
side his  shop,  and  came  out  on  the  quay  with 
the  shimmering,  dazzling  sea  before  her  and  all 
Poros  behind. 

Poros!  little  island  of  pink  and  cream  and 
whitewashed  houses  rising  all  in  a  cluster  up  to 
the  old  ruined  mill  on  the  top  of  the  hill;  with 
a  brand-new  Church  of  St.  Nicholas,  the  sailors' 
own  saint,  a  marketplace  by  the  water's  edge, 
a  little  square  with  the  broken  shaft  of  an  ancient 
column  left  standing  in  its  midst.  Little  island 
of  red  earth  and  green  pines,  girt  round  with  the 
bluest  of  blue  seas.  Poros  not  to  be  seen  from 
the  open  sea,  but  hiding  its  beauties  modestly 
till  the  ship  has  turned  the  corner  by  the  light- 
house, and  has  entered  the  most  beautiful  bay 
of  this  land  of  many  bays. 

It  was  one  sheet  of  quivering,  dancing,  sun- 
flecked  water  on  this  particular  morning,  white- 
and  red-sailed  fishing-boats  dotting  its  surface, 
and  the  great  mass  of  an  English  man-of-war 
anchored  far  out  near  the  entrance  of  the  port. 
The  blue  of  the  sea  and  sky  and  the  clear  sharp- 
ness of  outline  were  of  the  kind  which  untraveled 
Northerners  find  hard  to  believe  in  when  seen 
in  pictures. 

Kyra  Sophoula,  however,  had  no  eyes  just 
now  for  the  beauty  of  land  or  sea;  she  kept  them 


ON  THE  HILLS  31 

fixed  on  the  ground,  and  pondered  long  and  deeply 
as  she  walked  slowly  along  the  quay,  only  stop- 
ping long  enough  to  ask  a  question  of  some  of 
the  men  lounging  about,  or  cleaning  out  their 
gayly  painted  boats.  It  was  answered  in  the 
negative,  or  by  a  click  of  the  tongue  and  a  little 
backward  toss  of  the  head  which  also  signifies 
"no." 

"Well  met,  Kyra  Sophoula,  and  where  may 
you  be  going  to  this  morning,  if  one  may 
ask?" 

The  speaker  was  a  big  old  man  with  keen  blue 
eyes,  a  sunburnt  skin,  and  long  bushy  white 
mustaches  standing  out  on  each  side  of  his  face. 
In  his  flowing  dark  blue  breeches  swinging  their 
ample  folds  between  his  legs,  his  crossed-over 
vest,  light  blue  woolen  stockings  carefully  drawn 
up  over  shapely  calves,  yellow  shoes  and  large 
upright  island  fez  of  dark  red  cloth,  he  was  a 
splendid  type  of  the  old  Greek  master-mariner, 
the  intrepid  yet  careful  sailor,  the  stock  from 
which  sprang  most  of  the  island  heroes  of  1821. 

Kyra  Sophoula  gave  a  little  gasp  of  pleased 
surprise. 

"Many  years  will  you  live,  Capetan  Leftheri; 
you  were  in  my  thoughts  this  very  moment, 
and  now  I  see  you  before  me.  Indeed,  I  came 
this  way  to  hear  something  about  you,  but  they 


32         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

told  me  just  now  that  you  had  not  yet  returned 
from  Salonica." 

The  old  man  pointed  over  his  shoulder  to  his 
two-masted  little  schooner  anchored  in  the  nar- 
row sea  passage  between  the  quay  and  Galata 
on  the  mainland.  Her  line  of  bright  blue  paint 
was  scarcely  bluer  than  the  water,  and  her  sails 
were  opened  out  to  dry  in  the  sun. 

"Perhaps  they  thought  so,  because  I  got  into 
port  late  last  night  and  have  seen  very  few  as 

yet." 

"What  weather  did  you  have?" 

"Not  so  bad  near  the  island,  but  outside  on 
the  open  sea  the  wind  blew  fit  to  destroy  the 
world.  Round  Cavo  d'  Oro  I  thought  we  were 
lost  for  certain,  but  my  Evangelistra  is  a  good 
ship,  and  thanks  to  St.  Nicholas  she  brought  us 
safe  back." 

"And  shall  we  keep  you  with  us  some  days, 
Capetan  Leftheri?  You  are  ever  as  the  bird  on 
the  wing." 

"I  am  off  again  to-morrow  early,  but  not  far 
this  time,  only  to  Piraeus  with  a  few  lemons." 

"Are  you  taking  none  to  Constantinople  this 
season?" 

"Later  on  in  September  I  have  a  big  cargo  to 
take  there;  now  I  am  taking  these  few  cases  to 
Piraeus  and  bringing  back  some  sacks  of  rice 


ON  THE  HILLS  33 

and  coffee  for  Michali,  the  grocer,  just  to  fill  up 
these  days  of  waiting." 

"Capetan  Leftheri,  since  for  my  good  luck 
you  are  going  to  Piraeus  and  returning  soon,  I 
have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you." 

"  Whatever  you  may  ask,  Kyra  Sophoula,  you, 
my  old  friend's  wife,  it  is  done  already,  or  so 
you  may  reckon  it." 

"Your  kindness  is  great.  Will  you,  then,  if 
you  have  an  empty  hour,  come  back  with  me  to 
my  house,  and  we  can  talk  on  the  way;  also 
there  is  something  there  I  would  show  you." 

When  Maroussa  returned  home  at  noon,  the 
old  captain  was  taking  leave  of  her  grandmother 
at  the  door  of  the  little  courtyard,  and  she  heard 
the  last  words  exchanged  between  them. 

"Be  easy,  Kyra  Sophoula;  I  will  send  the 
man  myself  for  them,  before  sunset." 

"I  thank  you  again,  Capetan  Leftheri;  a  good 
voyage  to  you,  and  may  your  years  be  many." 

The  girl,  though  a  Poriote,  was,  strange  to 
say,  not  curious,  so  that  she  did  not  puzzle  very 
long  over  what  Capetan  Leftheri  had  promised 
to  send  for,  and  never  even  thought  of  men- 
tioning the  incident  to  Metro. 

The  days  went  by  as  usual  and  nothing  further 
was  said  of  the  Athens  project.  Future  plans 
are  rarely  much  talked  over  in  advance  by  the 


34         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

islanders,  being  generally  far  too  vague  and 
hard  of  achievement. 

Kyra  Sophoula  went  out  less  with  her  herb 
basket,  and  might  have  been  oftener  seen  sitting 
on  the  little  terrace,  stitching  away  at  various 
oft-patched  garments  of  Metro's.  Three  new 
blue  shirts  had  also  been  cut  out,  and  new  socks 
were  being  rapidly  knitted. 

Now  and  then  the  old  woman  would  shake  her 
head  dolefully  over  their  probable  future  fate 
away  from  her  supervision.  For  Metro,  to  her 
frequent  despair,  absolutely  ignored  the  meaning 
of  personal  property:  everything  he  possessed, 
and  God  knows  it  was  little  enough,  —  clothes, 
the  few  lepta  he  ever  had,  the  freshly  baked 
koulouria  the  baker  would  give  him  in  return 
for  errands  run,  his  slate  pencils  and  marbles, 
nay,  even  his  red  eggs  at  Easter,  that  treasured 
possession  of  poor  Greek  boys,  —  were  any 
one's  who  chose  to  ask  for  them.  But  the  one 
thing  she  had  never  been  able  to  forget  had  been 
her  utter  uncomprehending  dismay,  when  some 
years  ago  Metro  had  accounted  for  the  disap- 
pearance of  a  bright  red  handkerchief  which  she 
had  bought  for  him  at  the  fair  at  Vithi,  by  saying 
he  had  given  it  to  Andriko  because  when  he  had 
tied  it  round  his  head  he  had  looked  "so  beau- 
tiful." 


ON  THE  HILLS  35 

"He  looked  'so  beautiful,'"  she  had  repeated; 
" '  so  beautiful ! '  Holy  Virgin,  listen  to  the  child ! 
You  mean  to  say  you  gave  him  your  handker- 
chief for  a  gift  because  when  he  put  it  on,  he 
was  good  to  look  at?" 

The  little  fellow  nodded. 

"Good  Lord!  that  I  should  have  brought  up 
such  a  fool!  Well,  well,  God  grant  you  wisdom, 
my  boy,  and  to  me  patience." 

But  for  many  days  afterwards  she  had  gone 
about  her  work  muttering,  "He  was  so  beauti- 
ful; just  because  he  was  beautiful!  Has  such  a 
thing  ever  been  heard  of?"  And  till  the  first 
impression  wore  off,  she  had  entertained  anxious 
doubts  as  to  whether  the  lad's  brain  might  not 
be  in  some  way  affected. 

Yannoula,  the  widow,  the  said  Andriko's 
mother,  would  come  over  now  and  again  in  the 
afternoon  to  help  Kyra  Sophoula  with  her  sew- 
ing, having  found  out  there  was  a  stress  of  work, 
and  being  a  good  neighbor  always;  a  woman  of 
few  words,  gentle  and  low-spoken,  with  her 
widow's  black  kerchief  worn  madonna-wise  as 
they  wear  them  in  Poros,  throwing  a  dark 
shadow  over  the  upper  part  of  the  face. 

The  two  women  sitting  together  would  talk 
of  their  boys. 

"If  I  could  but  keep  Andriko  to  his  books," 


36         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

sighed  Yannoula;  for  like  most  unlettered  Greek 
women  she  had  the  utmost  reverence  for  learn- 
ing, which  represented  to  her  the  open  road  to 
all  future  ambition. 

"My  boy/*  and  Kyra  Sophoula  strove  to  keep 
inordinate  pride  out  of  her  voice,  "has  learnt 
all  Kyr  Vangheli  can  teach  him,  and  if  he  wishes 
to  learn  still  more  and  become  a  schoolmaster 
in  his  turn,  he  must  needs  go  to  Athens  to  learn 
it.  Hard?  Yes,  of  course  it  will  be  hard,  and  I 
must  make  some  sacrifice,  but  go  he  must,  since 
he  consumes  his  heart  in  longing  for  it." 

In  the  mean  while  there  had  been  a  change 
of  ministry  in  Athens,  and  Kyr  Vangheli  had 
hurried  there  in  fear  and  trembling  lest  some 
favored  candidate  of  the  new  Minister  of  Public 
Instruction  might  be  appointed  to  Poros  in  his 
place,  and  he  be  banished  to  some  little,  out- 
of-the-way  school  in  Thessaly,  the  Poros  school- 
mastership,  by  reason  of  its  four  hours'  distance 
from  the  capital,  being  a  much  coveted  post. 
Consequently  there  was  no  school  for  a  week, 
and  the  children  were  free  to  do  as  they  liked. 

The  long  sunny  hours  of  the  morning  Metro 
would  spend  almost  entirely  in  the  sea,  sometimes 
floating  lazily  about,  sometimes  diving  off  the 
little  wooden  pier,  and  sometimes  swimming 
with  the  long  clean  stroke  of  the  island  boys 


ON  THE  HILLS  37 

right  across  to  the  little  islet  near  the  Naval 
School,  where  the  old  disused  powder  magazine 
stood.  There  he  would  lie  down  to  rest  on  the 
short  thyme,  so  absolutely  motionless  that  the 
little  rabbits  with  which  it  was  peopled  would 
come  quite  close  and  even  nibble  at  his  naked, 
sun-browned  limbs  quite  fearlessly,  till  a  sudden 
violent  kick  would  send  them  scurrying  off 
terrified  to  the  farther  end  of  the  islet. 

After  noon,  as  soon  as  Maroussa  had  finished 
her  work  in  the  house,  they  would  start  off  for 
the  hills  with  the  calm  disregard  of  the  blazing 
August  sun  bred  of  long  familiarity.  On  the 
hottest  days  they  would  throw  themselves  down 
in  the  shade  on  the  soft  carpet  of  pine  needles, 
while  Maroussa  drew  on  her  seemingly  inex- 
haustible store  of  fairy  tales  or  old-world  legends. 
Metro  heard  all  about  the  pasha  with  his  three 
pairs  of  slippers;  the  king's  daughter,  whose  won- 
derful robes  were  contained  in  one  small  nut; 
the  fearful  dragon  who  haunted  the  fountain  so 
as  to  devour  the  maidens  who  came  to  wash 
their  linen,  but  who  was  forced  to  disgorge  them 
safe  and  unhurt  at  the  touch  of  the  magic  talis- 
man; he  heard  about  the  lovely,  dark-haired 
maiden  with  eyes  like  stars,  who  was  being  car- 
ried off  by  Charon  slung  across  his  saddle,  with 
all  the  dead  folk  in  his  train,  and  the  lover  who 


38         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

followed  over  mountains  and  through  torrents 
to  entreat  Charon  to  take  him  in  her  stead,  — 
this  curious  modern  version  of  Alcestis.  All  this 
Metro  heard  and  much  more,  and  always  the 
stories  ended  with  the  same  quaint  ending, 
"And  they  lived  well,  and  we  still  better.'* 

On  cooler  days  they  would  take  the  steep  red 
hill  path  winding  through  the  pines,  with  the 
sea  lazily  lapping  against  the  gray  rocks  on  their 
right,  and  follow  it  till  they  reached  the  mon- 
astery in  its  nest  of  trees.  There,  in  the  dark  cool- 
ness of  the  little  chapel  with  its  old  Byzantine 
templon,  Maroussa  would  stand  and  cross  her- 
self piously  before  the  great  icon  of  the  Virgin 
and  Child  which  the  Italian  painter  had  painted 
many  years  ago.  Right  up  to  the  ruins  of  Posei- 
don's Temple  on  the  top  of  the  hill  they  went 
one  day,  and  another,  across  to  Damala  on  the 
mainland  where  stands  the  Tower  of  Theseus, 
and  the  large  stone,  or  rather  rock,  under  which 
were  hidden  the  sandals  and  sword  of  his  father, 
the  king,  and  which  he  was  not  to  wear  till  he 
could  lift  the  stone  unaided.  Metro  was  rather 
incredulous. 

"If  he  were  as  strong  as  Heracles  himself,  he 
could  not  lift  it." 

Maroussa  pondered  a  moment. 

*'I  don't  think  Heracles  is  strong  at  all,"  she 


ON  THE  HILLS  39 

said  at  last;  "he  was  carrying  two  laden  bas- 
kets up  the  steep  street  the  other  day,  and  Yia- 
yia  told  me  to  lift  one  for  him." 

Metro  was  indignant. 

"What  do  they  teach  you,  then,  at  your  stu- 
pid girls'  schools?  Did  you  think  I  meant  old 
Heracles  the  deaf  one?  I  meant  Heracles  that 
we  learn  about,  and  the  twelve  wonderful  deeds 
he  did.  He  lived  in  the  ancient  days  of  the  land; 
there  are  no  men  like  that  now.  Sit  here  and 
I  will  tell  you  of  him." 

So  Metro  told  the  tale  this  time,  and  Maroussa 
listened. 

It  was  that  same  evening,  after  the  bean  soup 
had  been  eaten,  that  Kyra  Sophoula  quietly  and 
yet  with  a  tremulous  little  smile  produced  from 
the  knotted  corner  of  her  handkerchief  two 
folded  bank  notes  of  twenty -five  drachmas  each, 
and  held  them  out  to  Metro. 

"You  said  you  must  have  twenty-five  or 
thirty  drachmas  more;  now  with  fifty  you  will 
be  able  to  take  your  time  and  look  about  the 
place  carefully  before  choosing  a  house  in  which 
to  serve." 

Metro  turned  pale. 

"I  don't  understand  — "  he  began. 

"What  need  to  understand?  The  money  is 
there,  and  has  neither  been  stolen  nor  borrowed. 


40         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

If  I  choose  to  sell  something  —  well,  is  it  not 
my  own  affair?" 

But  Maroussa  had  guessed. 

"Oh,  Yiayia,"  she  cried,  "the  copper  pans, 
and  the  oven  trays!  I  thought  they  were  only 
gone  to  be  returned.  Oh,  Yiayia!" 

For  genuine  Constantinople  copper  pans  that 
light  up  a  whole  room  by  their  burnished  bright- 
ness are  a  rare  and  valuable  possession  in  Poros, 
and  their  owner  is  accounted  rich  in  worldly 
goods.  Besides  which,  as  they  are  rarely  bought 
now,  but  are  generally  heirlooms,  they  consti- 
tute an  undeniable  proof  that  the  family  pos- 
sessing them  have  been  well-to-do  householders 
for  some  generations  past.  AH  this  Maroussa 
knew  well,  also  her  grandmother's  pride  in  the 
deep  golden-red  pans  and  shining  shallow  trays, 
which  latter  were  only  put  into  the  oven  on  the 
last  days  of  Holy  Week  with  the  Easter  tsourelda. 
In  the  worst  days  of  the  little  household  they 
had  always  been  kept  bright  and  spotless,  and 
had  been  sent  to  the  tinman  to  be  relined  on 
the  very  slightest  suspicion  of  a  crack  in  their 
tin  lining,  for  that  might  mean  poisoning.  Few 
sacrifices  could  have  been  greater  for  an  island 
housekeeper,  but  Kyra  Sophoula  would  regret 
nothing. 

"Never  mind,  my  children;  the  money  was 


ON  THE  HILLS  41 

more  necessary  than  the  pans;  and  how  often 
did  we  cook  in  them?  For  our  requirements  the 
earthen  pot  will  do  just  as  well.  Take  the  money, 
my  boy,  take  it.  I  give  it  with  my  heart  — 
and  you  know  it." 

Kissing  was  not  much  a  habit  in  Poros,  but 
Metro  could  not  help  it;  he  was  too  glad,  the  joy 
was  too  sudden,  and  bending  from  his  superior 
height  of  a  tall  fifteen,  he  kissed  the  old  brown 
cheek. 

This  was  Sunday,  and  it  was  decided  that  he 
should  leave  on  the  Wednesday  morning.  It 
was  not  possible  to  be  ready  to  start  by  the  next 
day's  steamer,  which  passed  the  island  very 
early,  and  no  one  of  course  would  dream  of 
commencing  any  important  enterprise,  from 
a  long  voyage  to  the  cutting-out  of  a  new 
gown,  on  a  Tuesday;  so  Wednesday  it  should 
be. 

The  Monday  was  principally  taken  up  with 
farewell  visits  to  neighbors,  and  the  oft-repeated 
recommendation  of  Kyra  Sophoula  to  Metro  re- 
garding the  care  of  his  few  belongings,  and  the 
seeking-out  in  Athens  of  a  distant  cousin  of  her 
husband's,  who  was  known  to  have  married  a 
house-painter,  and  to  live  somewhere  at  the 
foot  of  the  Acropolis. 

But  on  the  Tuesday,  late  in  the  afternoon, 


42    v   TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

Metro  could  stay  under  roof  no  longer.  "  Come," 
he  said  to  Maroussa,  "let  us  go  up  there." 

Till  they  had  left  the  marketplace  and  the 
houses  along  the  sea  far  behind  them,  they  were 
frequently  stopped  by  various  friends  and  neigh- 
bors to  whom  the  departure  for  Athens  of  the 
lad  they  had  known  all  his  life,  and  whom  they 
had  fully  expected  to  see  working  in  Louka's 
boats  later  on,  as  his  father  had  done  before 
him,  was  an  important  event.  Even  when  they 
were  crossing  the  Narrow  Beach,  Niko  Man- 
delli,  the  sailor,  who  was  standing  just  inside  the 
iron  gates  of  the  Naval  School,  stopped  them, 
having  heard  of  Metro's  plans  and  wishing  to 
know  if  there  were  truth  in  the  report. 

"Well,  good  luck  to  you,"  he  said  as  they  were 
leaving  him;  "learning  is  a  fine  thing,  and  if  I  had 
more  of  it,  I  should  have  had  my  red  stripe  by 
now." 

Past  Barba  Nicola's  they  went,  where  the  white 
cat  was  drowsing  on  the  doorstep,  past  the  old 
fig  tree,  past  the  gate  of  the  red  house,  up  over 
the  hill  behind  it,  where  only  its  red  chimneys 
were  visible  above  the  tree-tops,  past  the  little 
plateau  with  its  solitary  olive  tree,  and  through 
the  young  pine  woods  beyond  with  their  softly 
moving  shadows  and  steep  paths,  down  to  the 
Beach  of  the  Little  Pines,  with  its  glorious  wide 


ON  THE  HILLS  43 

curve,  where  the  great  old  anchor  that  had  been 
there  ever  since  Barba  Stathi  was  young,  lay 
embedded  in  the  sand  and  seaweeds.  It  was 
just  before  sunset,  and  the  whole  expanse  of 
wooded  shore  was  bathed  in  a  brilliant  haze 
that  made  the  more  distant  trees  seem  unreal, 
as  though  seen  through  a  shimmering  golden 
veil.  The  pines  grew  everywhere,  from  the 
tiniest  shoot  of  tender  green,  just  emerging 
from  some  thorn  bush  that  had  protected  its 
early  growth,  to  the  older  trees  close  to  the  wa- 
ter's edge,  with  their  gaping  yellow  wounds 
from  which  the  resin  was  slowly  dripping.  The 
lentisk  bushes  made  spots  of  darker  shade  among 
the  luminous  green  of  the  young  pines,  and  the 
flat  surface  of  a  rock,  towards  the  east,  glowed 
and  gave  out  light  as  though  absolutely  carved 
out  of  solid  gold. 

A  flock  of  mountain  goats  were  crossing  the 
length  of  the  shore  from  one  hill  to  another, 
browsing  as  they  went.  The  liquid  tinkle  of 
their  bells  mingled  with  the  soft  lapping  of  the 
waves  and  the  persistent  chirp  of  the  tettix. 

Metro  stood  still  for  a  moment  with  his  back 
against  one  of  the  pine  trunks,  drinking  in  all 
the  perfect  glory  of  light  and  color  and  sound; 
then,  as  he  suddenly  realized  how  soon  he  would 
be  far  from  it  all,  he  let  himself  drop  full  length 


44         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

under  the  tree,  and,  with  a  little  choking  gasp, 
hid  his  face  in  the  pine  needles. 

Maroussa  was  puzzled. 

She  sat  down  beside  him  in  silence  for  a  little 
while,  and  pondered.  From  the  very  first  she 
had  known  how  ardently  he  had  hoped  and 
planned  to  leave  Poros;  how  Athens,  its  learn- 
ing, its  University,  and  all  its  glories  had  been 
his  constant  dream;  and  now  that  the  dream 
was  on  the  very  eve  of  fulfillment,  he  talked  no 
more  of  it,  but  was  sobbing  his  heart  out  under 
the  tree.  Her  life  had  been  a  simple  one,  and  this 
complexity  of  sentiment  bewildered  her. 

"Why  do  you  cry?"  she  asked  at  last;  "do 
you  not  want  now  to  go  to  Athens?" 

Metro  sat  up  and  pushed  the  hair  out  of  his 
eyes;  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  hide  or  deny 
his  tears,  as  a  Northern  boy  might  have  done, 
and  they  trickled  down  his  cheeks  as  he  spoke. 

"How  should  I  not  cry?  Even  though  I  have 
wished  so  long  to  go  away  and  get  more  learn- 
ing, as  you  know.  Still,  I  have  been  once  to 
Piraeus  in  the  steamer,  and  I  know  what  streets 
look  like,  and  now  to  live  in  them  always,  and 
to  leave  all  this  —  and  the  hills ! " 

He  turned  his  face  towards  them  in  their 
evening  rose  tints,  and  stretched  his  arms  out. 
eyes  were  swollen  and  red  with  crying,  his 


ON  THE  HILLS  45 

cheeks  paler  than  usual,  and  his  dull  brown  hair 
ruffled  and  full  of  pine  needles. 

Poor  Metro!  he  had  inherited  no  trace  of 
classic  feature  from  his  remote  ancestry,  but 
very  certainly  they  had  bequeathed  to  him  their 
great  and  undying  love  of  beauty;  beauty  of 
line,  beauty  of  form,  and  beauty  of  color. 

The  steamer  was  later  than  usual  the  next 
morning.  Starting  from  Nauplia  it  touched  at 
Poros  on  its  way  to  Piraeus.  This  was  supposed 
to  be  about  eight  in  the  morning  according  to 
the  official  time,  but  as  it  invariably  appeared 
an  hour  or  two  later,  the  intending  passen- 
gers generally  had  a  tedious  wait  round  the  old 
column  outside  Sotiro's  coffee-house,  and  this 
because  a  legend  existed  of  the  steamer  having 
arrived  at  Poros  at  least  twice  at  the  proper 
hour,  and  even  once  before  it. 

Only  Maroussa  had  come  down  with  Metro 
to  wait  for  the  steamer.  Kyra  Sophoula  had 
work  at  home,  she  said,  and  could  not  spare  the 
time;  she  had  stood  on  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
smiling  at  Metro,  as  bundle  in  hand  he  had 
paused  halfway  down  the  rocky  street,  and 
turned  back  to  wave  his  hand,  but,  as  Yannoula, 
who  was  watching  the  departure  from  their  ter- 
race, told  Andriko  later  on,  "her  eyes  were  not 
smiling." 


46         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

Down  on  the  quay,  Metro  felt  himself  for  the 
first  time  a  looker-on  instead  of  forming  part 
of  its  lazy,  sunny  Greek  life,  which  had  been 
going  on,  with  probably  very  little  change,  for 
centuries  before  he  had  been  born,  and  would 
continue,  precisely  in  the  same  way,  after  he 
had  left  it. 

Women  going  to  and  fro  with  then*  red 
earthen  pitchers  for  water  to  the  fountain, 
children  spuming  tops  or  splashing  in  the  water, 
young  girls  going  to  the  weaving-school,  men 
lounging  aimlessly  about,  cleaning  their  boats 
or  mending  their  nets,  and  some  few  moneyed 
favorites  of  fortune  seated  at  the  little  tables 
outside  Sotiro's,  sipping  their  coffee  or  puffing 
at  a  narghile  while  discussing  the  latest  news. 
Above  them  all  was  the  great  rock  like  a  man's 
face,  that  rises  over  this  end  of  the  island. 

Metro  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  the  hills,  rising  in 
all  their  morning  splendor  of  color  on  the  other 
side  of  the  bay.  Was  there  one  of  their  pine- 
clad  slopes  or  hollows  that  he  did  not  know,  or 
a  single  one  of  their  steep  red  paths  that  he  had 
not  trod?  Had  he  not  watched  every  one  of 
their  innumerable  changes  with  almost  rever- 
ent awe,  from  the  moment  when  the  softened 
peaks  and  blue-bathed  hollows  were  reflected 
line  for  line,  and  shade  for  shade,  in  the  perfect 


ON  THE  HILLS  47 

calm  of  the  sea  at  early  dawn,  to  the  moment, 
long  after  sunset,  when  they  stood  out  in  gray- 
black  masses  against  a  pale  yellow  sky? 

Who  could  ever  tell  what  they  were  to  him? 
How  could  words  ever  describe  the  absolutely 
complete,  almost  sensuous  satisfaction  he  felt 
in  their  lovely  curves,  or  in  the  purity  of  their 
outline.  And  what  could  equal  the  delight  of 
that  perfect  day,  long  ago,  when,  returning  to 
them  after  a  short  absence,  he  had  once  more 
climbed  up  through  the  pines,  and  felt  their 
waving  branches  on  his  face,  had  crushed  the 
thyme  under  foot  and  the  myrtle  leaves  in  his 
hands  to  bring  out  their  scent,  had  raced  the 
bewildered  mountain  goats  in  the  very  exuber- 
ance of  his  joy,  and.  at  last  had  flung  himself 
down  with  outstretched  arms,  and  kissed  the 
very  earth  out  of  the  sheer  overflow  of  delight 
of  his  little  pagan,  beauty-loving  heart. 

And  now  he  was  leaving  them,  and  of  his  own 
free  will !  Every  turn  of  the  steamer's  screw  by 
and  by  would  carry  him  farther  and  farther  from 
them.  Metro  looked  away;  then*  outline  had 
become  blurred  and  misty. 

Maroussa,  in  her  old  yellow  frock,  stood  quietly 
beside  him,  her  fingers  playing  nervously  with 
a  loose  end  of  his  bundle.  After  a  few  seconds  he 
turned  to  her  and  spoke  a  few  words,  giving  a 


48         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

message  for  his  schoolmaster,  whom  he  was 
sorry  to  have  missed  seeing;  but  she  did  not 
answer. 

It  was  she  who  always  talked  when  they  were 
together,  but  just  now  it  seemed  to  her  as  though 
she  were  standing  a  great  way  off,  and  as 
though  her  voice  must  needs  be  of  greater  vol- 
ume to  reach  him.  Also  the  words  escaped  her 
and  lost  their  ordinary  meaning.  The  Metro 
she  had  known  all  her  life  seemed  suddenly 
strange,  and  the  familiar  features  looked  as  they 
might  look  to  one  gazing  at  them  for  the  first 
time.  The  fear  of  the  unknown  was  upon  her. 

By  a  curious  intuition  she  vaguely  felt  in  ad- 
vance all  the  mystery  of  distance;  it  was  as 
though  she  already  found  herself  before  that  in- 
surmountable wall  built  of  all  the  thousand  un- 
told and  half-forgotten  details  of  the  daily  life 
apart,  of  the  strange  places  and  strange  voices, 
which  throws  its  shadow  over  every  meeting 
after  a  long  absence.  Dimly  she  felt  this,  and 
not  understanding  the  paralyzing  silence  born 
of  it,  she  unconsciously  longed  for  Metro  to  go, 
that  the  tension  might  end. 

But  when  the  steamer  was  signaled  at  last, 
and  one  of  Louka's  men  called  to  them  to  take 
their  places  in  the  boat  that  was  being  untied 
from  its  iron  ring  on  the  quay  wall,  Maroussa 


ON  THE  HILLS  49 

shivered  and  instinctively  felt  for  Metro's  hand 
as  she  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  narrow  bench. 
There  was  little  time  for  leave-taking.  The 
steamer  was  already  late,  the  captain  had  busi- 
ness of  his  own  in  Piraeus  and  was  cross  at  the 
delay,  more  especially  as  all  the  Poros  pas- 
sengers consisted  of  two  old  women,  a  sailor 
from  the  Naval  School,  and  Metro.  The  latter 
climbed  up  the  side,  and  stationed  himself  on 
the  lower  deck,  from  where  he  could  call  out  a 
last  addio  to  Maroussa. 

She  stood  up  in  the  swaying  boat,  waving  her 
handkerchief,  with  a  tense  smile  on  her  face. 
One  thought  remained  uppermost  and  clear,  — 
the  others  were  crushed  down  for  the  moment, 
—  to  spare  Metro  pain,  and  to  keep  him  brave 
before  all  those  strangers.  The  smile  was  fixed 
on  her  lips  and  remained  there  even  when  the 
figures  on  deck  faded  into  an  indistinct  blur. 
But  when  the  steamer  turned  round  the  point 
by  the  lighthouse,  and  the  last  coil  of  smoke 
vanished  into  the  white  clouds,  Maroussa  threw 
herself  down  on  the  net  at  the  bottom  of  the 
boat  and  refused  to  be  comforted. 


II 

UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES 

Where  ancient  olives  silver  the  rich  plain. 
Ringed  in  their  fence  of  aloes,  .  .  . 

RENNELL  RODD. 

A  GREAT  pine  grew  among  the  mulberry  trees 
near  the  wooden  gate.  The  little  house  with  its 
green  shutters  stood  well  back  in  the  courtyard 
away  from  the  street  and  the  shore.  The  sun, 
filtering  through  the  vine  leaves  over  the  porch, 
made  bright  patches  on  the  ground  just  out- 
side the  open  door,  where  old  Stamo  sat  slowly 
drinking  his  morning  coffee  before  the  heat  of 
the  day  began.  It  was  good  coffee,  too,  not  a 
concoction  of  dried  figs  and  ground  corn,  for 
Stamo  was  a  man  of  property,  as  property  goes 
in  the  islands,  having  worked  hard  all  his  life, 
and  having  inherited  a  little  land  from  his  father 
as  well.  He  was  a  big  old  man,  with  blue  eyes 
under  bushy  white  eyebrows,  and  a  pale  skin. 
His  hair  was  still  plentiful,  and  for  his  age  his 
back  was  wonderfully  straight.  He  wore  the 
cross-over  vest  and  baggy  dark  blue  cotton 
breeches  of  the  older  islanders.  His  eyes  fol- 


WATERING  HER  POTS  OF  SWEET  BASIL 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  51 

lowed  his  wife  as  she  moved  about  the  court- 
yard, watering  her  pots  of  sweet  basil  and  carna- 
tions, before  the  sun  rose  too  high.  She  was  thin 
and  brown-skinned,  but  had  evidently  been  a 
handsome  woman  in  her  youth,  having  the  broad 
low  brow,  straight  nose,  and  finely  chiseled  nos- 
trils of  the  classic  type,  which  is  met  with  so  much 
of  tener  in  the  islands  than  on  the  mainland. 

"Moska,"  he  began  slowly  as  she  passed  close 
to  him,  "Moska,  do  you  know  that  I  never 
closed  an  eye  all  night?" 

She  paused,  balancing  her  water  jar  on  the 
broken  shaft  of  an  old  marble  column,  that 
served  as  a  stand  for  a  multitude  of  small  flower- 
pots. 

"And  why?  Are  you  not  well,  perhaps?" 
•  Stamo  snorted  contemptuously.  "Yes,  you 
had  better  ask  why.  If  you  want  to  know  why, 
you  had  better  ask  your  daughter  why  she  spent 
the  whole  night  crying  and  twisting  about,  and 
sobbing  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  instead  of 
saying  her  prayers  and  going  off  to  sleep  like  a 
sensible  maid." 

"And  no  wonder,  after  the  way  you  shouted 
at  her  last  evening.  Viola  has  always  had  a  will 
of  her  own,  you  know  it,  and  yesterday  you 
never  even  let  the  poor  child  tell  you  what  she 
wanted." 


52         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"In  my  time  a  young  girl  never  lifted  her 
eyes  from  the  ground  when  her  father  spoke  to 
her;  now  they  not  only  look  up,  but  they  must 
speak  as  well !  I  have  no  need  to  hear  what  she 
wants.  I  know  it  quite  well,  and  she  can  go  on 
wanting.  She  will  do  just  what  I  say,  remember 
that.  But  you  can  tell  her  at  the  same  time  that 
I  will  have  no  crying  at  nights,  or  going  about 
with  red  eyes  and  closed  lips  in  the  daytime.'* 

"Stamo,  you  want  the  loaf  whole  and  the 
dog  satisfied,  and  you  cannot  have  it." 

"That  is  idle  talk.  Now,  hark  you,  wife, 
you  must  make  the  girl  listen  to  reason;  you 
women  are  better  at  talking." 

Moska  poured  all  the  water  out  of  her  jar 
upon  a  large  hibiscus  Japonica,  blossoming  into 
brilliant  scarlet  in  the  old  battered  petroleum 
tin  into  which  it  had  been  transplanted.  Then 
she  brought  her  jar  to  refill  it,  at  the  large  red 
earthen  one  which  stood  against  the  wall  of  the 
house. 

"You  are  a  strange  man,  Stamo;  all  her  life 
long  you  have  spoiled  the  child,  letting  her  have 
her  way  in  all  things,  afraid  lest  the  wind  blow 
too  hard,  or  the  rain  drop  on  her,  and  now  you 
would  marry  her  to  a  man  she  cannot  bear." 

"And  where,  pray,  will  she  find  better?  Will 
you  tell  me?  Young,  handsome,  strong,  a  good 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  53 

son,  'and  a  good  worker:  yes,  one  of  the  best 
in  the  island.  His  father  may  not  have  much 
to  leave  him  when  he  closes  his  eyes.  It  is  not 
the  old  man's  fault  if  he  fell  on  evil  days.  I  do 
not  think  of  the  money:  what  I  know  is  that, 
as  God  has  not  given  us  a  son,  I  would  rather 
Mantho  worked  in  my  vineyard,  and  among 
my  olive  trees  after  me,  than  any  man  I  know. 
A  good  lad,  too,  counts  his  words  like  a  girl,  and 
sweet-spoken  and  gentle." 

"But  since  she  does  not  like  him,"  persisted 
his  wife. 

"Bah!  Leave  me  in  peace  with  your  foolish 
talk." 

Stamo  pushed  aside  his  coffee-cup  and  began 
pacing  up  and  down  the  courtyard,  his  large 
hands  crossed  behind  his  back,  playing  nervously 
with  his  short  string  of  smooth  brown  beads. 

"I  have  no  patience  with  all  this  new  rubbish. 
Who  asked  my  mother,  or  yours,  or  yourself 
either,  if  they  liked  forsooth  the  husbands  that 
were  chosen  for  them?  Who  asked  their  opinion? 
And  did  they  fare  badly?  I  ask  you,  did  they 
fare  badly?  And  I  tell  you  plainly,  once  for  all, 
my  daughter  is  not  going  to  set  up  her  own  silly 
brain  against  mine  either,  while  I  live.  What 
are  we  reduced  to  when  we  must  waste  our  time 
listening  to  what  a  maid  will  and  will  not!  Fine 


54         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

doings,  indeed!  That  will  be  the  feet  rising  to 
strike  the  head,  as  my  father  used  to  say." 

Just  then  a  girl  came  to  the  house  door  and 
stood  looking  out  into  the  courtyard.  The 
morning  breeze  made  her  blue  cotton  gown 
flutter  a  little,  and  stirred  the  little  black  curls 
at  the  back  of  her  neck.  She  stood  very  quietly, 
her  arms  hanging  and  her  hands  empty.  Her 
face  showed  traces  of  recent  tears,  and  she 
would  never  be  as  handsome  as  her  mother 
must  have  been,  but  she  had  the  real  velvety 
Greek  eyes,  and  the  rich  coloring  of  a  pome- 
granate flower. 

Her  father  stopped  short  in  his  pacing  and 
looked  at  her. 

"Well,"  he  said  roughly,  after  a  pause,  "well, 
are  you  speechless  to-day?" 

"  Good-morning,  my  father." 

A  sort  of  inarticulate  grunt  was  all  the  answer 
to  her  greeting,  and  the  pacing  was  resumed.  , 

"Come  here,"  he  said  at  last. 

The  girl  advanced  and  stood  before  him. 

"Has  the  night  put  a  little  sense  into  your 
brain?"  Then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
he  continued,  "Your  mother  here  says  I  do  not 
let  you  say  what  you  want.  It  strikes  me  I  have 
let  you  say  it  too  often.  But  let  that  be.  Just 
tell  us  now,  who  is  this  man  you  saw  at  your 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  55 

aunt's  house,  and  imagined  you  could  choose 
for  a  husband?  Perhaps  your  mother  will  be- 
lieve then  what  folly  it  was  sending  you  to  Pi- 
raeus, and  filling  your  narrow  head  with  town 
notions.  Come,  speak,  since  I  permit  it.  Who 
is  he?" 

"He  is  no  town  man,  but  an  islander,  a  sailor 
in  the  Navy." 

"That  is  to  say?" 

"Niko  Mandelli,  the  son  of  Andoni  who  died, 
and  of  Kyra  Panayota." 

"A  fine  bridegroom,  truly!  —  who  tried  all 
trades  and  succeeded  in  none." 

"He  is  a  sailor,  I  told  you,  my  father." 

"Because  he  cannot  get  away  from  the  Navy, 
and  because  he  has  to  work  there  whether  he 
will  or  no.  I  know  him.  A  man  who  was  left 
with  three  sisters  when  his  father  died,  and  who 
could  never  earn  enough  to  feed  them,  much 
less  put  aside  a  dowry  for  them;  with  the  result 
that  two  of  them,  over  thirty,  are  unmarried 
to  this  day,  and  if  the  youngest  married,  and 
his  mother  has  a  piece  of  bread  to  eat  and  a 
mattress  to  lie  on,  it  is  no  thanks  to  him,  but 
to  his  uncle,  her  brother  Anastasi.  The  old 
woman  takes  in  other  folks'  washing,  and  this 
fine  son  of  hers,  instead  of  helping  in  any  way, 
comes  and  takes  what  he  can  from  her  when- 


56         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

ever  he  is  free.  A  fine  bridegroom!  His  father 
over  again!" 

"His  father  is  dead." 

"Does  that  make  him  any  better?" 

The  old  man  kicked  aside  the  stool  which  was 
before  him  and  began  once  more  pacing  up  and 
down.  Then,  after  a  pause,  — 

"Even  were  he  other  than  he  is,  do  you  think 
I  mean  to  give  you  to  a  sailor,  a  man  who  is 
now  here,  and  now  there,  and  who  would  never 
be  in  his  house  to  look  after  you,  when  I  have 
closed  my  eyes?  Put  that  out  of  your  head." 

"Niko  said  he  would  soon  be  promoted  and 
earn  more,  and  then,  through  the  deputy  who 
knew  his  father,  he  could  manage  to  be  ordered 
here  to  the  Naval  School,  and  stay  with  us  al- 
ways." 

"He  is  very  good!  And  if  you  please,  will  you 
do  me  the  favor  to  tell  me  how  you  know  all 
this?  Decent  maidens  do  not  look  up  when  a 
strange  young  man  speaks,  and  you  must  have 
been  listening  to  him  and  answering  him." 

"No,  I  did  not.  He  said  it  to  my  uncle,  and 
my  uncle  told  me." 

"I  always  knew  your  uncle  had  about  as 
much  brain  as  a  cock,  but  I  never  thought  even 
he  would  talk  of  marriage  to  a  maid  before  her 
parents  knew  of  it." 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  57 

"My  uncle  knows  many  things  and  reads 
many  newspapers,  and  he  says  now  in  our  time 
women  must  choose  for  themselves." 

The  old  man  laughed  aloud. 

"  Truly  a  fine  jest !  And  the  next  thing  will  be 
perhaps  that,  after  a  maid  has  found  her  bride- 
groom all  alone,  she  will  come  and  tell  her  par- 
ents that  the  matter  is  settled.  But  I  am  a  fool 
to  waste  my  words.  Put  all  this  nonsense  out 
of  your  head  at  once.  Even  if  I  would  give  you 
to  Niko  Mandelli,  which  I  never  will,  I  could 
not.  I  have  spoken  long  ago  to  Mantho's  father, 
to  old  Photi,  and  he  is  willing." 

"That  does  not  matter,  Stamo,"  put  in  his 
wife.  "They  have  not  been  engaged  by  the 
priest,  nor  exchanged  rings;  you  could  change 
your  mind  if  you  liked." 

"Stamo,  the  son  of  Theophani  the  miller, 
does  not  change  his  mind,"  shouted  the  old  man 
angrily;  "moreover,  all  the  village  knows  it. 
Are  we  so  many  that  what  is  known  to  two 
houses  can  be  hidden  from  all  the  rest?  You 
must  gather  yourself  together  a  little,  my  girl. 
It  is  ended  now,  the  running  up  the  hillsides 
for  thyme  or  cyclamen  or  koumara,  or  sitting 
idle  under  the  olive  trees.  You  are  a  grown 
maiden  now,  and  must  stay  at  home  and  help 
your  mother  to  prepare  your  dower-clothes." 


58         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"But  Mantho  is  slow-witted:  he  never  opens 
his  lips,  and  I  do  not  like  him,"  said  Viola,  her 
eyes  filling  again. 

"He  is  a  good  lad,  and  a  good  son,  and  he  can 
work  if  he  cannot  talk.  That  is  enough  words. 
You  will  take  the  man  I  choose  for  you,  like  or 
no  like,  —  yes,  and  sing  a  little  song  into  the 
bargain." 

This  last  assertion  exasperated  the  girl  be- 
yond endurance.  She  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked 
her  father  full  in  the  face. 

"I  will  marry  no  man  if  it  be  not  my  will  also; 
even  before  the  priest  I  will  say  'No'!" 

"Silence,"  shouted  her  father,  striding  up  to 
her  from  the  farther  end  of  the  yard.  "How  dare 
you  lift  your  voice  up  before  me?" 

He  raised  his  hand  as  though  to  strike  her, 
but  his  wife,  who  had  been  watching,  seized 
hold  of  his  arm.  He  wrenched  it  free,  and  catch- 
ing hold  of  Viola  by  the  shoulder  twisted  her 
round. 

"Listen  to  me.  What  I  say  I  mean.  You  will 
marry  Mantho  if  you  marry  at  all.  For  the  sake 
of  my  name,  and  what  they  will  say  in  the  island, 
I  will  not  marry  you  to  any  man  by  force.  But 
if  you  do  marry,  it  shall  be  the  man  I  have 
chosen.  Otherwise  you  die  a  maid.  I  have  said. 
It  is  finished." 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  59 

He  let  go  of  the  girl  so  suddenly  that  she 
swayed  and  caught  hold  of  the  vine  trunk  to 
save  herself  from  falling.  Then,  with  a  scowl  on 
his  face,  he  crossed  over  to  where  the  great 
pine  grew  among  the  mulberry  trees,  pulled 
open  the  wooden  gate,  and  went  out. 

Viola  turned  round  and  went  indoors,  her  mo- 
ther following  with  the  empty  jar  in  her  hand. 

In  the  house  both  shutters  and  panes  were 
wide  open,  admitting  the  fragrance  of  the  lemon 
blossom  and  the  strong  fresh  brine  from  the 
sea;  also  other  varied  village  odors  less  easily 
definable.  An  old  four-post  bed  with  quaintly 
twisted  columns,  probably  a  relic  of  Venetian 
days  in  the  island,  stood  in  one  corner,  and  the 
girl  seated  herself  on  this,  letting  her  feet  swing 
backwards  and  forwards. 

"My  father  may  say,  and  he  may  shout,  never- 
theless I  will  marry  whom  I  will  and  no  other. 
If  he  be  Stamo,  son  of  Theophani,  I  am  Viola, 
the  daughter  of  Stamo,  and  my  will  is  as  strong 
as  his.  Mother,  say,  have  I  not  always  done  as  I 
would?" 

"Aye,  you  have,  more  shame  to  me,  perhaps, 
for  letting  you.  When  you  were  quite  a  little 
one,  the  neighbors  at  the  fountain  would  say, 
when  you  cried  for  aught,  *You  must  do  it, 
Moska,  it  is  Viola's  will,'  and  laugh  at  me."x  - 


60         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

Viola  jumped  off  the  high  bed  and  put  her 
arms  round  her  mother. 

"No  one  must  laugh  at  you,  you  are  a  good 
manoula;  but  wait  a  while  and  you  will  see:  now 
as  always  Viola  will  get  her  will." 

Moska  sighed,  foreseeing  trouble. 

"But  you  must  not  anger  your  father,  my 
child." 

"No,"  said  Viola,  "I  will  not.  It  makes  much 
noise  and  it  serves  no  purpose." 

Viola  remembered  Mantho  from  the  time  she 
was  a  tiny  maid  of  four  or  five  years  old.  Her 
father  would  often  in  those  days  hoist  her  on  his 
shoulder  and  carry  her  with  him  when  he  went 
to  work  on  the  mainland,  in  his  olive  grove  and 
lemon  orchard.  Old  Photi's  land  adjoined  theirs, 
and  his  son  Mantho,  a  tall,  awkward,  silent  lad, 
was  always  by  his  side. 

There  was  no  mother,  and  the  father  and 
son  were  always  together.  Mantho  had  only 
been  to  school  for  two  winters.  He  was  not  a 
very  bright  scholar,  and,  as  old  Photi  said, 
book-learning  would  not  teach  him  to  prune 
the  vines,  guide  the  plow,  or  dig  the  trenches 
round  the  trees  any  better.  Learning  was  all 
very  well,  perhaps,  for  Anthi's  Metro  the  orphan, 
who  liked  his  books,  and  who  meant  to  become 
a  schoolmaster  some  day;  besides,  he,  poor  lad, 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  61 

had  no  land  to  inherit.  But  Mantho  had  better 
stay  with  his  father,  and  learn  to  know  every 
tree  and  every  vine  on  the  land  that  would  be 
his  some  day.  He  would  leave  off  work  at  sun- 
set a  little  before  his  father,  and,  returning  to 
the  tiny  three-roomed  hut,  would  light  the  fire, 
tidy  up  the  place,  and  cook  their  bean  soup  or 
their  boiled  herbs,  as  handily  as  any  woman, 
singing  the  while  to  himself  all  the  island  songs 
he  had  ever  heard.  Song  came  to  him  far  more 
naturally  than  speech,  and  his  voice  had  that 
peculiar  vibration  in  it  which  brings  at  the 
same  time  pure  delight  and  also  sweet  pain  to 
the  hearer. 

Sometimes  in  the  day  he  would  leave  his  work, 
and  cross  the  boundary  line  to  where  Viola  had 
been  bidden  to  sit  under  one  of  the  trees,  and 
provided  with  little  fallen  green  lemons  as  play- 
things. He  would  take  her  a  ready-cracked 
almond,  or  a  ripe  fig  just  pulled  from  the  tree, 
as  an  offering.  But  as  the  lad  was  very  shy  and 
never  attempted  to  amuse  her,  but  just  stood  still, 
twisting  his  hands  awkwardly  about  and  gazing 
at  the  rosy  child  with  her  black  curly  head,  she 
did  not  care  for  his  visits,  and  was  always  pleased 
when  his  father  called  him  back  to  his  work.  It 
was  four  years  ago  that  an  old  standing  debt, 
whose  interest  had  slowly  accumulated,  had 


62         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

driven  Photi  to  selling  all  the  vineyard  and  most 
of  the  olive  trees.  It  was  a  bitter  wrench  for  the 
old  man,  but,  as  he  told  his  neighbors,  he  was 
getting  on  in  years,  and  he  could  not  die  easy 
if  he  thought  his  boy's  life  was  to  be  harassed  by 
the  burden  of  debt  as  his  had  been.  Better 
that  he  should  have  but  a  strip  of  land,  and 
that  free. 

Till  that  day  when  the  pair  of  stout  oxen  that 
pulled  the  plow,  and  the  old  mule  that  turned 
the  pump-well,  had  to  be  sold,  there  had  always 
been  work  enough  for  both  of  them  on  the  land; 
but  when  this  happened,  Mantho,  a  tall  youth 
not  long  home  from  his  naval  service,  had  to 
seek  for  other  work.  The  few  olive  and  lemon 
trees  that  remained  round  the  little  house 
scarcely  provided  work  enough  for  the  old  man. 
It  was  then  that  Stamo,  who  knew  Mantho's 
value  as  a  worker,  had  taken  him  on  to  his  land, 
paying  him  by  the  day.  When  he  did  not  need 
him,  Mantho  easily  found  work  in  some  other 
orchards,  or  in  the  winter  would  take  a  turn  at 
the  oil  presses;  but  this  was  rarely.  So  the  change 
had  affected  Viola  very  little,  who  saw  Mantho 
just  as  often,  and  found  him  just  as  silent  and 
awkward  and  uninteresting. 

In  the  mean  while  her  father  had  been  per- 
suaded into  letting  her  spend  a  winter  in  Piraeus, 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  63 

with  an  aunt  married  to  a  prosperous  baker 
there,  and  it  was  during  this  absence  that  she 
met  Niko  the  sailor,  who  never  lacked  for  fluent 
words  to  tell  her  of  her  beauty,  which  is  always 
pleasant  hearing  at  nineteen,  who  kept  her 
uncle  and  aunt  and  cousins  constantly  enter- 
tained by  his  tales  of  ship  life,  and  his  descrip- 
tions of  the  three  foreign  ports  he  had  been  to, 
during  his  time  on  the  man-of-war,  —  Malta, 
Genoa,  and  Portsmouth.  On  Sunday  afternoons 
he  had  walked  by  her  side  on  the  quay  at  Pi- 
raeus while  her  aunt  complacently  watched  the 
shipping  on  the  other,  and  often  had  he  whis- 
pered how  far  superior  island  girls  were  in  every- 
thing to  the  Pirseotes,  and  even  Athenians,  and 
that  his  dream  was  to  marry  a  Poriote  and  settle 
down  on  the  island,  near  her  people  and  his  old 
mother.  From  this,  to  being  told  by  her  easy- 
going uncle  which  was  the  special  Poriote  girl 
Niko  dreamt  of,  night  and  day,  and  to  consent- 
ing to  wait  till  her  parents'  approval  could  be 
gained,  was  not  a  long  step  for  Viola.  But  though 
she  had  promised  secrecy,  once  back  in  Poros 
she  had  not  been  able  to  resist  hurrying  matters 
by  confiding  these  plans  to  her  mother,  and  per- 
suading her  to  speak  to  her  father.  Hence  all 
the  trouble  which  had  arisen. 

For  some  days,  however,  after  the  storm  of  the 


64         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

explanation,  there  was  a  period  of  calm.  Few 
words  were  exchanged  between  Viola  and  her 
father,  and  when  sometimes  after  dark  a  few 
bars  of  a  love-song  were  heard  outside  the  house, 
old  Stamo  would  smile  complacently,  as  though 
consenting  to  the  courtship  of  an  accepted 
lover. 

Nevertheless  a  whisper  ran  round  the  village 
that  the  marriage  of  Photi'sMantho  and  Stamo's 
Viola  was  not  such  an  accomplished  fact  as  it 
had  been  considered.  Whence  the  rumor  sprang 
no  one  knew,  nor  from  which  side  the  reluctance 
arose,  but  it  was  generally  attributed  to  Viola. 

As  Kyra  Marina,  who  always  knew  every- 
thing before  it  happened,  said  one  morning  at 
the  fountain:  "What  can  you  expect  but  change 
and  caprice,  from  a  maid  who  has  been  spoiled 
from  the  moment  she  could  walk  alone,  and 
who  wastes  her  time  picking  flowers  instead  of 
herbs?" 

Later  on,  that  same  evening,  Viola  came  down 
herself  to  the  fountain  bringing  the  pitchers  to 
be  filled,  and  Youla,  Kyra  Marina's  granddaugh- 
ter, who  was  standing  at  her  open  door  and  saw 
her  pass,  ran  out  to  join  her,  hoping  to  satisfy 
her  curiosity  as  to  the  truth  of  the  whispered 
rupture. 

At  the  fountain  all  the  women  were  dispers- 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  65 

ing ;  only  Maroussa,  a  friend  of  theirs,  re- 
mained, and  her  grandmother,  a  small,  brown- 
skinned  old  woman. 

The  four  sat  together  on  the  stone  ledge  of  the 
fountain,  while  the  pitchers  filled  slowly  one  by 
one.  It  was  after  sunset,  and  the  distant  trees 
across  the  bay  looked  almost  black,  while  the 
sharp-cut  features  of  the  Sleeper  were  of  a  grayer 
black  against  the  pale  yellow  sky. 

Maroussa  had  much  to  tell:  they  had  lately 
had  letters  from  Metro,  Anthi's  Metro,  who  had 
gone  to  Athens  to  become  a  schoolmaster,  and 
he  was  learning  so  fast  that  perhaps  in  two  or 
at  the  most  three  years  he  would  be  able  to  get 
his  diploma.  He  was  even  learning  French. 
There  was  a  kind  old  French  master  who  was 
fond  of  him  and  taught  him  for  nothing.  Metro 
had  sent  a  picture  of  the  Acropolis,  where  he 
went  as  often  as  he  could,  and  he  wrote,  added 
Maroussa,  that  from  there  on  a  clear  day  he 
could  distinguish  the  hills  of  Poros. 

Viola  listened  abstractedly,  and  Youla  asked 
her  teasingly  whether  her  thoughts  were  with 
Mantho  and  his  songs,  and  on  Viola's  energetic 
denial,  exclaimed,  — 

"It  is  true,  then,  as  every  one  says,  that  the 
marriage  will  not  be?" 

"Every  one  is  no  one,"  put  in  Kyra  Sophoula. 


66         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"For  myself,  I  have  neither  said  nor  heard  this 
thing." 

"Why,  Kyra  Sophoula,"  said  the  girl,  open- 
ing her  black  eyes  wide,  "how  can  that  be?  My 
grandmother  has  said  it  now  for  many  days." 

"Do  you  think  the  whole  lake  knows  it  when 
one  frog  croaks,  my  daughter?  " 

Youla,  nothing  abashed,  plied  Viola  with  fresh 
questions.  Was  the  marriage  really  not  to  be, 
and  why?  Did  her  father  perhaps  not  think 
Mantho  rich  enough? 

"Rich  or  poor,  Mantho  is  naught  to  me/* 
said  Viola,  rising  and  bending  over  her  pitcher 
to  see  if  it  were  nearly  full. 

"That  is  a  pity,"  said  Kyra  Sophoula;  "for 
you  may  seek  much  farther,  and  fare  much 
worse.  A  good  lad  and  a  good  worker  is  Mantho." 

"Are  all  the  good  lads  and  good  workers  lost 
from  Poros,  then?"  asked  Viola  irritably;  "and 
those  who  may  have  a  thought  in  their  brains 
besides  their  work,  and  a  speaking  tongue  in 
their  mouths  as  well?" 

"Mantho  has  plenty  of  thoughts  in  his  brain, 
my  girl,  though  they  may  be  too  tightly  packed 
to  slip  out  freely.  I  know  this  well,  for  Metro 
always  said  so  when  they  thought  the  lad  slow- 
witted  at  school.  And  good !  —  a  piece  of  gold ! 
Too  good;  there  is  no  service  he  will  refuse  any 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  67 

one  if  he  can  manage  to  do  it;  no  matter  the 
trouble  or  the  cost." 

Viola  looked  thoughtful  for  a  moment. 

"No  service,  did  you  say,  Kyra  Sophoula?" 

"Never  a  one!  A  heart  of  gold,  I  tell  you." 

"Maybe,"  said  Viola,  laughing.  "But  at  the 
same  time  as  insipid  as  an  August  cucumber. 
He  has  been  nowhere,  seen  naught  of  the  world. 
Where  should  he  get  all  the  wonderful  thoughts 
that  you  speak  of?  All  his  life  long  he  has  been 
stuck  as  close  to  his  old  father  as  nail  to  flesh, 
and  has  worked  early  and  late." 

Kyra  Sophoula  poised  her  jar  carefully  on  her 
shoulder,  and  then  looked  at  the  girl. 

"Have  you  ever  picked  cyclamen  on  the  hills 
in  autumn?" 

She  asked  this,  knowing  Viola  had  spent  a 
childhood  of  leisure,  free  from  the  hard  work  re- 
quired of  most  Poriote  children. 

"Surely,"  answered  the  girl,  opening  her 
eyes  widely. 

"And  where  do  you  find  the  reddest  flowers, 
with  the  strongest  and  longest  stems?" 

"But  you  know  where,  Kyra  Sophoula,"  said 
Viola,  wondering  at  the  simple  question,  for  the 
old  woman  was  a  great  herb  picker,  and  re- 
nowned for  her  knowledge  of  all  growing  things 
and  of  their  hiding-places. 


68         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  I  want  to  see  if  you  can 
tell  me." 

"Why,  in  the  thorn-bushes,  of  course,  and 
under  the  pines." 

"Exactly:  in  the  shade,  and  where  they  have 
the  hardest  work  to  pierce  through  to  the  light. 
Just  what  I  was  saying." 

"But  we  were  talking  of  Mantho,"  said 
Viola,  bewildered. 

"Yes,  and  now  we  talk  of  cyclamen,  but  it  is 
all  the  same  thing,  my  child,  all  the  same  thing." 

And  Kyra  Sophoula  trudged  away  up  the 
rocky  street  with  the  jar  on  her  shoulder,  fol- 
lowed by  Maroussa  with  the  two  smaller  ones 
in  her  arms. 

It  was  full  moon  that  night,  and  old  Stamo 
had  been  sitting  after  supper  with  his  wife  under 
the  great  pine  that  grew  among  the  mulberry 
trees.  When  they  came  indoors  there  was  no 
light  in  the  house,  for  the  moonlight  was  stream- 
ing through  the  open  shutters,  and  Moska  was 
too  good  a  housewife  to  waste  good  oil  where  it 
was  not  needed.  Viola  was  leaning  against  the 
window,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  shimmering  re- 
flection of  the  moon  on  the  sea,  but  her  arched 
eyebrows  were  drawn  into  a  straight  line,  and 
her  lips  tightly  closed. 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  69 

Suddenly,  while  her  father's  hand  was  on  the 
door  of  the  sleeping-room  beyond,  and  her 
mother  had  just  taken  out  the  sprigs  of  myrtle 
that  closed  the  mouth  of  the  large  water  jar  in 
order  to  fill  a  smaller  one  for  the  night,  a  man's 
voice  arose  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  neighboring 
houses.  Not  a  very  powerful  voice,  perhaps, 
though  a  Frenchman  who  came  to  the  island  some 
years  later,  and  who  had  heard  all  the  wonder- 
ful singers  of  his  day,  told  Mantho  that  had  he 
only  studied  he  might  have  been  a  great  tenor, 
and  have  sung  not  only  in  Athens,  but  in  Italy, 
where  the  public  is  so  hard  to  please;  in  Paris, 
where  good  singing  is  understood;  and  in  Lon- 
don, where  great  sums  are  paid  to  listen  to  it. 
But  it  was  too  late  then.  It  was  a  voice,  young, 
warm,  and  resonant,  what  the  older  Italians 
meant  when  they  talked  of  "il  bel  canto."  A 
voice,  and  above  all  a  way  of  bringing  forth, 
which  produced  the  impression  that  not  only 
had  the  singer  himself  composed  the  song  he  was 
singing,  but  that  it  faithfully  expressed  his  feel- 
ing, or  passion,  of  the  moment.  A  voice  that  em- 
bodied all  the  joy  and  all  the  sadness  of  life, 
but  stripped  it  of  all  sordidness  or  brutality. 
A  voice  that  made  every  nerve  vibrate,  even  of 
the  least  music-loving;  that  was  at  one  and  the 
same  time  a  spiritual  joy  and  a  physical  caress. 


70        TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 


Viola  took  a  step  back  into  the  room  as  though 
to  leave  the  window,  when  it  first  arose,  but  after 
the  first  notes  she  stood  quite  still  and  went  no 
farther. 

The  old  people  came  closer  and  peered  out, 
but  no  figure  was  visible  in  the  moonlight, 
though  every  object  and  every  shadow  was  as 
sharply  defined  as  at  noon.  The  singer  kept 
carefully  out  of  sight.  Two  or  three  of  the  smaller 
houses  on  the  right  jutted  out  into  the  road,  and 
it  was  easy  to  be  hidden  from  view  behind  them. 

The  song  was  a  simple  island  love-song  which 
they  all  knew  well  and  had  heard  often;  but  it 
had  a  plaintive  sound  that  seemed  new  to  them. 


-  y6  ly  -  pi  -  me  -  na   [va-  ria    pous'a-ga  - 


^ 


i 


po] 


[va  -  ria  pou  sa  -  ga   -   po !] 


Translation:  A  little  bird  at  dawn  was  crying  sorrowfully   .  .  . 
(How  deeply  do  I  love  thee). 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  71 

The  long  sweet  notes  rose  and  fell,  ending  al- 
most in  a  sigh.  When  it  was  over,  Stamo  looked 
at  his  daughter. 

"Well,  my  lass,"  he  said,  "I  do  not  think 
there  are  many  maidens  who  can  say  they  are 
so  sweetly  courted." 

"He  sings  well,"  said  Viola,  "but  it  is  no 
courtship  that  a  lad  should  sing  a  song  on  a  sum- 
mer night  when  the  moon  is  high." 

"Patience,"  laughed  her  father;  "the  rest 
will  come." 

"I  have  told  you,"  said  Viola,  "that  I  have 
no  wish  for  the  rest,  but  I  should  like  to  know 
very  much  whether  you,  my  father,  and  old 
Photi  have  not  decided  things  between  you 
that  the  lad  himself  has  never  thought  of.  You 
have  spoken  to  his  father,  you  said,  but  has  his 
father  ever  spoken  to  him?  Do  you  know  that 
he  has  any  thought  of  marriage?  Songs  mean 
nothing." 

Stamo  laughed,  being  in  a  good  temper. 

"Do  not  fret  yourself.  Mantho  will  always 
listen  to  his  father,  and  Photi  was  joyful  when 
we  spoke  of  the  matter." 

"  Only  it  is  not  Photi  who  is  to  marry  me.  Per- 
haps his  son  likes  me  no  better  than  I  like 
him." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  where  a  poor  lad  like 


72        TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

him  will  find  better  than  Stamo's  daughter? 
This  is  idle  talk.  Good-night  to  you." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  passed  into 
the  inner  room,  leaving  his  wife  to  follow  at 
her  will. 

The  next  morning  he  announced  that  he  must 
go  over  to  Piraeus  for  two  days  to  see  about  a 
new  plow,  and  left  quite  early,  saying  he  would 
take  his  coffee  at  Sotiro's  while  waiting  for  the 
steamer,  by  the  old  column. 

In  the  afternoon,  as  there  were  no  lemons  left 
in  the  house,  Viola  told  her  mother  she  would 
cross  over  to  the  orchard,  and  bring  some  back 
with  her. 

"Take  a  bundle  of  clothes  with  you  also," 
said  Moska;  "we  wash  on  Monday,  and  it  will 
be  that  less  to  carry." 

For  through  the  lemon  trees  ran  a  little  stream 
coming  down  from  the  hills,  and  as  it  never 
dried  up  even  in  summer,  the  women  always 
took  their  linen  there  to  wash.  So  Viola  tied  a 
white  kerchief  over  her  hair,  snatched  up  the 
bundle,  and  before  opening  the  wooden  gate 
stopped  a  moment  where  the  great  pine  grew 
among  the  mulberry  trees,  to  pick  some  of  the 
purple  berries  into  a  leaf,  for  refreshment  on  the 
way.  Then,  closing  the  gate  behind  her,  she 
ran  down  the  road  that  stretched  between  the 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  73 

sea  on  the  one  side  and  the  little  old  houses  on 
the  other,  exchanging  a  greeting  as  she  went  with 
old  Barba  Stathi,  who  was  coming  down  from 
the  hills  with  his  donkey  laden  with  brushwood 
for  the  ovens. 

A  little  further  on,  one  of  Louka's  boats  was 
just  starting  for  the  mainland;  so,  bestowing 
the  last  of  her  mulberries  on  Nasso,  one  of  the 
ragged  lads  always  hanging  about  the  quay, 
Viola  jumped  into  it,  finding  herself  with  six 
other  passengers,  to  say  nothing  of  a  mule. 

Once  on  the  other  side  she  paid  her  five  lepta, 
and  crossed  the  shady  beach  and  the  olive- 
planted  slope  that  led  to  a  narrow  lane  beyond. 
Viola  walked  more  slowly  along  this  lane,  as 
though  she  were  beginning  to  feel  the  weight  of 
her  bundle.  On  both  sides  were  garden  walls 
overshadowed  by  lemon  and  other  fruit  trees, 
and  here  and  there  little  white  houses  with  their 
covered  terraces,  and  rows  of  orange-colored 
pumpkins  spread  out  to  dry  on  the  terrace  ledges. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  lane  she  lifted  the  latch 
of  a  high  wooden  gate  and  passed  into  the  or- 
chard. A  narrow  path  between  two  rows  of 
tall  cypresses  led  to  the  fruit  trees.  Oleanders 
and  jasmine  grew  in  tangled  masses  of  pink  and 
white  and  yellow  against  the  dark  straight 
trunks.  The  lemon  trees  were  giving  well  this 


74         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

year,  and  clusters  of  light  yellow  hung  thick 
under  the  shining  leaves.  Here  and  there  were 
dotted  a  few  smaller  mandarin  trees,  and  at  the 
farthest  end  was  the  silver  gray  of  the  olives. 
Beyond  a  hedge  of  aloes  was  another  strip  of 
land  planted  with  a  few  trees,  and  at  the  one 
corner  a  very  small  white  house. 

Viola  deposited  her  bundle  in  a  little  outhouse 
where  the  fodder  was  kept,  and  then,  going  to 
one  of  the  heaviest  laden  lemon  trees,  she  stood 
looking  up  at  the  fruit.  Under  the  shade  of  a 
giant  walnut  tree  a  mule  was  turning  round  and 
round  at  the  pump-well,  and  Viola  could  hear 
the  monotonous  creaking  of  the  primitive  wooden 
wheel. 

A  young  man  was  opening  channels  in  the  soft 
earth  for  the  water  to  flow  into  the  ditches  dug 
round  the  roots  of  the  trees.  He  turned  at  the 
sound  of  Viola's  footsteps,  started,  and,  throw- 
ing down  his  mattock,  came  up  to  where  she 
stood. 

He  was  of  middle  height,  brown-eyed,  with 
a  slight  dark  mustache  that  left  the  lips  free. 
His  features  were  not  in  any  way  remarkable, 
but  well  finished.  In  motion  he  was  rather 
graceful,  but  when  in  repose  he  had  awkward, 
restless  movements  of  his  hands,  and  now  and 
then  a  little  nervous  shake  of  the  head. 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  75 

"Welcome,"  he  said;  and  then  after  a  moment, 
as  she  did  not  speak,  "your  father  has  not  been 
here  to-day;  he  is  well?" 

"Yes,  quite  well,  but  he  has  gone  for  two 
days  to  Piraeus." 

"For  the  plow,  perhaps?" 

"Yes,  so  he  said." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mantho  clasped  and  un- 
clasped his  hands,  and  balanced  himself  first 
on  one  foot,  and  then  on  the  other,  looking  all 
the  time  at  Viola. 

"Is  there  anything  you  wish?"  he  asked  at 
last. 

"My  mother  has  no  lemons;  I  came  to  get 
some." 

"Shall  I  pick  you  a  few?" 

"Yes,  if  you  will." 

He  pulled  seven  or  eight  of  the  yellowest  fruit 
off  the  laden  branches  and  looked  at  her  in- 
quiringly. 

"Add  a  few  more,  that  I  may  not  have  to 
be  coming  again  to-morrow." 

When  he  had  made  a  little  pile  on  the  ground 
of  fifteen  or  so,  she  said,  "Thank  you,  that  is 
enough." 

"How  will  you  carry  them?" 

She  looked  about  her  vaguely. 

"True,  I  forgot  to  bring  my  tagari." 


76         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"Wait,  I  will  bring  one." 

He  ran  to  the  back  of  the  orchard,  struggled 
through  a  gap  in  the  hedge,  and,  crossing  the 
strip  of  land  to  the  little  house,  returned  almost 
at  once  with  a  brightly  striped  tagari  in  his  hand. 
Into  this  he  put  the  lemons,  covering  them 
with  a  few  of  their  leaves. 

"There  is  still  room;  shall  I  lay  a  few  figs  at 
the  top?" 

"It  is  not  worth  while,"  said  the  girl;  "we 
have  still  a  few  left  from  this  morning,  and  we 
are  only  two  souls  in  the  house,  now  that  my 
father  is  away." 

She  took  the  tagari  from  his  hand,  and  he 
waited. 

Then,  as  she  made  no  movement  to  go,  "It 
is  heavy  for  you,  perhaps?"  he  asked. 

"Bah,  it  is  nothing;  I  could  carry  ten  times 
as  much." 

She  took  a  few  steps  towards  the  entrance, 
then  turned  suddenly,  and,  with  decision  in  her 
voice,  said,  "Mantho,  my  father  told  me  that 
he  has  spoken  to  yours,  that  they  are  agreed  be- 
tween them  —  that  they  —  that  we  — 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  with  a  little  quiver  of 
his  eyelids,  "I  know." 

Viola  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  continued, 
"I  must  speak  to  you  of  this."  Then,  as  he 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  77 

looked  up  at  her  suddenly,  she  went  on  hurriedly, 
"Yes,  I  know  —  you  will  say,  perhaps,  it  is  not 
seemly  that  I  should  come  here,  and  speak  to 
you  on  this  matter  alone;  I  do  not  know  — 
perhaps  you  are  right,  but  I  must  do  it;  there 
is  no  one  else.  My  father  has  been  very  angry 
with  me,  and  I  have  suffered  much  for  many 
days  now." 

"You  must  not  suffer.  What  angered  your  fa- 
ther? I  thought  he  was  always  good  to  you.  He 
loves  you  well." 

"He  loves  me  well  while  I  am  ready  to  say, 
'Yes,  Lord!'  to  his  every  will;  but  if  I  be  not 
ready,  then  he  swears  things  must  happen  as  he 
orders,  and  if  I  suffer  it  matters  not,  for  a  maid's 
will  is  of  no  account." 

"What  does  he  order?" 

"That  I  marry  you." 

The  man  turned  pale  under  his  sunburn. 
"And  you?" 

"I  do  not  wish  it;  no." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  slow,  continuous  creaking  of  the  wooden 
wheel  and  the  buzz  of  the  insects  in  the  trees. 
Then  Viola  resumed,  "You  must  not  think  evil 
in  your  mind.  It  is  not  that  you  are  poor, 
or  that  I  do  not  know  you  are  good  —  but,  I 
cannot  be  married  to  you." 


78         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

Mantho  pressed  one  hand  tightly  against  the 
other  and  cleared  his  throat  once  or  twice. 

"If  you  do  not  wish  it,  it  must  not  be,"  he 
said  slowly.  "You  must  tell  your  father  you 
cannot  do  it." 

"Do  you  think  I  have  not  told  him?  But  he 
will  not  listen.  For  two  days  we  talked,  and  at 
the  end  he  was  terribly  angry.  And  now  I  am 
afraid  of  him.  You  cannot  tell  how  afraid  I 
am!  He  took  me  by  the  shoulder,  so  hard  I 
nearly  fell." 

The  man's  face  darkened;  he  took  a  step 
forward.  "These  things  must  not  be.  No  one 
must  make  you  afraid.  Your  father  must  under- 
stand that  you  cannot  do  as  he  wills  —  that 
you  would  suffer.  Cannot  your  mother  speak 
to  him?" 

"She  has  spoken;  he  will  not  listen  to  her  any 
more  than  to  me.  It  is  finished,  he  says;  all  the 
island  knows  it,  and  he  will  not  change.  And  if 
he  forces  me,  what  can  I,  a  poor  maid,  do?  Can 
I  shame  you  and  myself  and  say  'No'  before 
the  priest?  I  told  him  I  would  do  even  that, 
but  I  think  I  would  rather  die." 

"Hush!  it  shall  not  be,  I  tell  you.  I  will 
speak  to  him  myself;  I  will  tell  him  that  you 
cannot  — " 

"For  God's  name,  no!  He  would  kill  me  if  he 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  79 

knew  I  had  come  here  and  spoken  to  you  myself 
on  the  matter." 

"But  then—  " 

"Nay,  listen.  There  is  but  one  way.  You  are 
good,  Mantho;  you  have  always  had  a  good 
heart;  you  will  not  refuse  to  help  me,  and  some 
day  the  Holy  Virgin  will  send  you  a  bride  a 
thousand  times  better  than  I  am." 

"But  you  will  not  let  me  speak  to  him." 

"Not  as  you  meant  to,  no.  But  you  must 
speak  to  him,  Mantho,  and  I  will  bless  you  al- 
ways—  you  must  tell  him  — " 

"What  must  I  tell  him?" 

"That  you  will  not  marry  me.'* 

There  was  a  violent  start  of  all  his  body,  and 
then  his  face  hardened. 

"That  is  impossible.  I  do  not  tell  such  lies. 
Moreover,  it  would  be  an  insult.  My  father  has 
given  his  word." 

"Mantho,  I  beg  of  you.  You  can  say  your 
father  had  not  asked  you.  That  you  are  a  man 
grown,  and  have  your  own  will.  That  you  do 
not  wish  to  marry  yet." 

"Your  father  would  be  terribly  angered,  and 
justly." 

"At  first,  yes,  but  it  would  pass  with  time, 
and  you  could  see  him  less  often,  perhaps.  While 
I  —  oh,  Mantho,  will  you  not  help  me?" 


80         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"Not  in  this  way;  I  cannot." 

"I  see;  your  words  are  idle  words.  You  say 
at  first  you  would  not  have  me  suffer,  and  when 
I  ask  your  help,  you  fear  my  father's  anger  too 
much.  You  would  rather  it  fell  upon  me!" 

"  That  you  must  not  say." 

"Why  not,  since  it  is  true?  Well,  I  go  now. 
It  is  late.  I  was  foolish  to  think  you  would  help 
me  —  men  have  always  great  words  —  but 
they  are  only  words." 

"Stay;  you  wish  me  to  tell  your  father  that 
I  refuse  to  marry  you?  " 

"Since  you  will  not  do  it,  why  do  you  ask 
again?" 

For  a  few  moments  the  man  stood  quite  still, 
his  hands  tightly  clenched,  his  brows  knit.  The 
creaking  of  the  wooden  wheel  went  on  mono- 
tonously and  unceasingly.  He  had  worked  ac- 
companied by  this  sound  nearly  all  his  life  long, 
and  had  never  noticed  it  any  more  than  the 
chirp  of  the  tettix;  now  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  noise  was  maddening. 

Suddenly  he  looked  her  full  in  the  eyes. 
"Will  you  tell  me  one  thing?  Is  it  that  you  do 
not  wish  to  be  married,  or  —  you  have  been  away 
from  the  island  —  you  may  have  seen  others, 
with  more  learning,  with  better  ways  than  ours. 
Is  it,  perhaps,  that  there  is  some  one  for  whom 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  81 

your  heart  has  spoken,  and  to  whom  your  father 
will  not  give  you?" 

Viola  looked  at  him  in  astonishment;  she  had 
never  yet  heard  so  long  a  speech  from  Mantho. 

"My  father  will  not  give  me  now,"  she 
answered;  "but  perhaps,  who  knows,  later  on, 
when  Niko  comes  here  — " 

"Ah!  And  he  loves  you,  this  man?" 

"It  seems  so  to  me." 

"Then  why  does  he  not  come  at  once,  like 
an  honest  lad,  and  ask  you  from  your  father?  " 

"No,  no,  not  yet;  I  do  not  wish  him  to  come 
yet.  I  do  not  wish  it  to  seem  that  it  is  I  who  refuse 
to  marry  you.  My  father  is  terrible  when  he  is 
angry  with  me,  or  when  things  do  not  come  as 
he  likes.  Only  to  think  of  him  makes  me  afraid." 

"Be  not  afraid  then.  I  will  say  what  you 
wish." 

"Oh,  Mantho,  I  thank  you.  I  always  knew 
you  were  good,  but  — " 

"Hush,  I  am  not  good;  only  you  must  not 
suffer  or  be  afraid.  These  things  must  not  be. 
Now,  go.  It  is  late;  and  your  mother  will  won- 
der." 

"Good-night,  Mantho." 

"Good-night.  Sleep  well — and  be  not  afraid." 

Viola  was  right  in  describing  her  father  as 


82         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

terrible  when  things  did  not  happen  as  he  liked. 
To  the  suggestion  that  she  had  thrown  out  the 
night  of  the  serenade  —  that,  though  old  Photi 
was  so  pleased  about  this  marriage,  his  son  might 
not  be  as  willing  —  he  had  never  even  given  a 
second  thought.  So  that  now  the  young  man's 
quiet  announcement  that  he  had  not  yet  thought 
of  marriage,  that  he  thanked  Kyr  Stamo  for  pre- 
ferring him,  but  that,  without  intending  any  dis- 
respect to  his  daughter,  he  meant  to  go  on  living 
alone,  with  his  father,  came  upon  the  old  man 
like  a  bolt  from  the  blue.  The  scene  with  Mantho 
was  terrible.  Two  hired  men,  who  were  working 
in  the  vineyard  the  day  it  happened,  witnessed 
it  from  a  distance,  and  even  heard  part  of  the 
old  man's  furious  invectives.  By  a  stroke  of 
good  luck  Kyra  Marina  was  the  first  in  the  vil- 
lage to  hear  of  it,  and  away  she  hobbled,  her 
wicked  old  head  shaking  as  she  went  to  report 
to  Krinio,  to  Chryssoula,  to  Stellio's  Panouria, 
to  Kyra  Thanassaina,  to  Panayota,  and  to  all 
the  others  at  the  fountain.  She  enjoyed  that 
morning:  there  was  so  much  to  tell,  and  every 
one  so  anxious  to  hear  it.  How  Kyr  Stamo  had 
called  Mantho  dishonorable  and  a  scoundrel; 
how  he  had  even  struck  at  him  with  a  stick, 
though  Mantho  had  at  least  had  the  decency  to 
content  himself  with  only  parrying  the  blows; 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  83 

how  he  had  ended  by  ordering  him  off  his  land 
there  and  then,  throwing  his  money  on  the 
ground  for  him  to  pick  up;  and  had  vowed, 
not  only  that  never  again  should  he  do  a  stroke 
of  work  for  him,  but  that  he,  Kyr  Stamo,  would 
take  good  care  he  should  never  get  another 
day's  work  on  the  whole  island. 

"And  what  did  Mantho  say?"  asked  Krinio 
when  she  could  get  a  word  in. 

"Oh,  he  spoke  so  low,  Vangheli  could  not 
hear  anything.'* 

"And  what  will  he  do  now?" 

"He  will  have  to  leave  the  island,  for  sure; 
Kyr  Stamo  never  threatens  what  he  cannot  do, 
and  the  others  who  have  orchards  and  vineyards 
and  take  hired  men  will  listen  to  him.  And  as 
for  staying  on  with  his  father,  there  is  scarce 
work  enough  for  the  old  man  on  that  tiny  strip, 
weak  as  he  is,  let  alone  for  two,  and  they  could 
never  make  enough  to  live  on.  No,  no;  Mantho 
will  have  to  go." 

"Poor  old  Photi  will  be  left  alone  then,"  said 
Lenio. 

"Eh,  well,  whose  fault  is  it?  He  is  the  father; 
he  should  have  made  his  son  listen  to  reason.  He 
will  have  to  lose  him  now." 

Kyra  Marina's  prophecies  and  conclusions 
were  by  no  means  always  to  be  depended  upon, 


84         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

but  In  this  case  she  proved  correct.  Stamo  never 
for  a  moment  dreamed  that  this  unheard-of  re- 
fusal of  Mantho's  to  fulfill  the  engagement  en- 
tered into  by  his  father  could  in  any  way  be  con- 
nected with  what  he  considered  Viola's  foolish 
talk  of  some  days  ago.  On  the  contrary,  he  was 
convinced  that,  notwithstanding  all  she  said 
then,  she  must  be  feeling  the  insult  offered  to  her 
by  Mantho  very  deeply,  and  attributed  all  her 
entreaties  in  his  favor  to  the  weak  mercy  of  an 
exceptionally  tender  heart.  He  fulfilled  his 
threats  to  the  letter,  and  Mantho  gained  no- 
thing but  excuses  or  evasive  answers  wherever  he 
applied  for  work.  The  result  was  that  the  poor 
lad  saw  absolute  starvation  before  him,  and  con- 
sequently his  father,  who  would  certainly  insist 
on  sharing  with  him  the  little  that  was  to  be  got 
out  of  their  strip  of  land,  unless  he  decided 
to  leave  the  island  and  seek  for  work  elsewhere. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  he  had  never  fore- 
seen this  extreme  result  of  his  sacrifice,  and  that 
it  was  with  a  heavy  heart  and  bitter  thoughts 
that  he  decided  to  tell  his  father  that  he  must 
leave  him. 

The  old  man  had  been  sorely  vexed  at  first 
when  Mantho  had  declared  he  would  not  marry 
Viola,  and  had  no  plausible  reason  to  give  for 
the  change;  neither  was  it  in  human  nature  that 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  85 

in  their  circumstances  he  should  not  bemoan 
for  his  son  and  himself,  and  for  the  children 
yet  unborn,  the  loss  of  this  alliance.  So  that 
there  had  been  hard  words  and  bitter  reproaches 
added  to  poor  Mantho's  trouble  when  he  sat 
at  night  beside  the  open  window  of  their  little 
hut,  looking  out  at  the  starlight  and  answering 
never  a  word.  But  Photi  was  a  gentle-hearted 
old  man,  and  had  given  mother  love  as  well  as 
father  love  to  Mantho,  from  the  time  when  he 
had  been  left  alone  with  the  two-year-old  child, 
so  that  the  boy's  pale  face  and  loss  of  appetite 
soon  smote  his  conscience.  Perchance,  he  told 
himself,  the  lad  might  be  fretting  over  some 
worthless  woman,  and  would  not  insult  their 
honest  name  by  offering  to  marry  her.  Such 
things  had  been.  Did  he  not  remember  in  his 
own  youth  the  black  eyes  and  laughing  lips  of 
an  Armenian  singing  girl  in  Nauplia,  who  had 
nearly  led  him  astray  ?  Who  was  he,  to  add  to 
the  pain,  if  his  son  was  fighting  a  hard  fight? 
So  he  laid  his  hand  tenderly  on  his  shoulder  one 
evening,  and  Mantho  looked  up  in  his  face, 
and  there  was  peace  between  them. 

It  was  three  days  later,  while  the  old  man  was 
loosening  the  earth  round  the  roots  of  his  olive 
trees,  that  Mantho  told  him  very  gently  that 
there  was  no  work  for  him  anywhere  on  the 


86         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

island,  and  that  he  thought  of  going  to  Kalamata 
in  the  Peloponnesus,  where  he  had  been  told 
that  there  was  much  work  to  be  had,  on  account 
of  the  many  strong  men  and  lads  who  had  emi- 
grated from  there  to  America. 

His  father  said  very  little.  "  You  know  best, 
my  son;  even  if  I  would,  I  could  not  keep  you." 
But  he  stuck  his  spade  deeply  into  the  earth  and 
bent  his  head  on  his  shaking  hands. 

It  had  to  be,  he  saw  it;  it  was  written  by  Fate 
that  his  boy  should  leave  him,  but  the  pain  was 
very  sharp.  They  had  all  lived  and  married  and 
died  in  this  little  house,  —  his  grandfather,  his 
father,  and  his  brothers,  —  and  it  was  a  grief 
not  to  be  put  into  words  that  his  only  son  should 
be  forced  away  to  look  for  work  in  other  parts. 
That  Greece  was  a  small  country,  and  that  the 
lad  could  not  at  worst  be  more  than  two  days' 
journey  away,  meant  nothing  to  the  old  peasant. 
To  him  Poros  was  his  country,  just  as  to  his 
ancestors  in  the  old  days  each  man's  city  re- 
presented the  whole  of  the  fatherland. 

If  at  least  Mantho  had  been  a  sailor,  there 
would  be  his  returns  to  expect  and  to  rejoice 
over,  but  he  had  never  learned  anything  ex- 
cept to  till  the  earth,  and  his  father  knew  that 
wherever  his  work  was  found,  there  would  his 
home  be. 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  87 

He  left  for  Nauplia  three  days  later,  all  his 
possessions  in  a  small  bundle  slung  across  his 
shoulder.  His  father  came  down  to  the  quay  with 
him,  and  after  the  steamer  left,  returned  home 
alone. 

Kyra  Sophoula,  who  was  going  to  the  fountain 
with  her  pitcher,  saw  him  sitting  in  one  of 
Louka's  boats,  his  head  bent  low  on  his  breast, 
and  his  hands  clasped  between  his  knees.  That 
same  afternoon,  to  his  great  astonishment,  the 
old  man,  who  never  saw  any  of  the  villagers 
from  one  week-end  to  the  other,  saw  her  thread- 
ing her  way  between  the  few  vines  that  were 
left,  behind  his  little  house.  She  was  anxious, 
she  told  him,  to  have  a  few  olives,  before  they 
were  all  picked,  from  a  particular  tree  of  his 
which  was  known  to  bear  the  largest  of  any  in 
those  parts.  A  neighbor  of  hers  going  to  Athens 
next  week  on  business  was  willing  to  carry  a  little 
jar  of  them  to  Metro  studying  there,  Metro  the 
orphan  who  had  lived  with  her  so  long.  She  knew 
the  poor  boy  could  get  nothing  there  in  the 
town  but  nasty  stale  olives,  sold  ready  prepared 
at  the  grocer's,  and  she  wished  to  have  Photi's 
olives  in  good  time  to  crack  them  carefully,  and 
steep  them  in  brine  for  the  right  number  of  days. 
And  while  Barba  Photi  was  picking  the  finest  for 
her,  she  took  the  opportunity  of  going  into  the 


88         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

little  house  and  giving  it  a  general  tidying,  also 
putting  on  to.  boil  a  goodly  pile  of  succory  leaves 
for  his  supper,  which  she  had  picked  on  the  way 
up,  and  which  she  assured  him  she  did  not  care 
to  be  laden  with  on  the  way  back. 

She  stayed  a  little  longer,  leading  him  on  to 
talk  of  his  boy,  telling  him  of  the  amount  of 
work  she  had  heard  say  was  to  be  found  at 
Kalamata,  and  the  high  wages  that  were  to  be 
earned  by  good  workers. 

After  that  day  she  would  often  look  in,  on  her 
way  to  her  own  little  lemon  orchard,  and  gen- 
erally find  a  way  of  doing  some  little  service  for 
the  old  man.  He  was  very  gentle,  and  grateful, 
and  never  complained,  but  it  was  a  lonely  life, 
and  the  nights  were  very  long. 

Viola  knew  that  Mantho  had  left,  but  that 
was  all.  The  only  one  from  whom  she  might 
have  heard  news  of  him  was  his  father,  and  she 
never  went  across  to  the  mainland  now.  Stamo, 
content  with  the  vengeance  he  had  taken  for  the 
insult  offered  him,  never  mentioned  Mantho's 
name,  and  if  he  regretted  the  clever,  willing 
worker,  who  had  always  been  so  prompt  to  fore- 
stall any  disaster  to  the  trees  or  vines,  so  ready 
to  obey  or  to  suggest,  as  the  case  might  be,  he 
never  said  so. 

Viola  spent  more  time  indoors  than  formerly, 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  89 

only  going  to  the  fountain  for  water,  or  now  and 
then  with  Maroussa  and  Youla  as  far  as  the 
narrow  beach  outside  the  Naval  School  to  see 
the  sailors  being  exercised.  She  tried  to  under- 
stand the  sharp  orders  given,  the  marching  and 
counter-marching,  and  often  told  her  compan- 
ions how  much  finer  Niko  would  look  when  he 
got  his  stripe  than  most  of  the  under-officers  who 
put  the  untrained  recruits  through  their  paces. 
She  even  persuaded  Youla,  one  day  when  they 
were  alone  together,  to  stop  with  her  on  pre- 
tense of  asking  for  a  glass  of  water  at  the  door 
of  the  little  tumbledown  house  where  Niko's  old 
mother  and  two  sisters  lived. 

They  found  an  unkempt,  frowzy-looking  old 
woman,  busy  with  her  daughter  at  the  wash- 
tub  in  the  yard.  She  stopped  just  long  enough, 
in  the  midst  of  a  noisy  altercation  with  the 
younger  woman,  to  fill  a  small  gourd,  telling 
them  they  might  drink  out  of  that.  They  left 
after  only  putting  it  to  their  lips,  but  they  could 
hear  the  old  woman  shrieking  and  wrangling 
violently,  long  after  they  had  left  the  house  be- 
hind them. 

Viola  often  wondered  why,  though  nearly  a 
year  had  passed  since  her  return  from  Piraeus,  no- 
thing further  had  ever  been  heard  of  Niko;  but 
the  wonder  remained  in  a  way  impersonal,  and 


90        TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

the  silence  carried  no  sting  with  it.  Sitting  idle 
under  the  great  pine  that  grew  among  the  mul- 
berry trees,  she  would  strive  to  keep  her  thoughts 
fixed  on  the  young  sailor  as  she  remembered 
him,  with  his  ready  laugh,  his  trim  figure,  and 
the  curious  narrowing  and  softening  of  his  eyes 
when  he  spoke  to  her.  But  all  these  memories, 
which  at  first  had  been  so  vividly  present  that 
she  had  only  to  close  her  eyes  to  see  his  face 
again,  were  getting  faint  and  elusive.  The  image 
was  dim,  and  sometimes  after  many  days  it  was 
with  a  start  that  she  remembered  Niko  again. 
This  made  her  angry  every  time  it  happened. 
She  did  not  consciously  accuse  herself  of  fickle- 
ness. Self-analysis  is  not  the  rule  in  Poros,  but 
it  made  her  vaguely  dissatisfied,  irritable,  and 
liable  to  bursts  of  ill-temper,  which  even  her 
quiet,  easy-going  mother  found  it  hard  to  endure. 
The  poor  sorely  tried  creature  was  convinced 
that  her  girl  was  pining  for  the  absent,  careless 
sailor  lover  she  had  talked  about  so  much,  and 
she  was  even  mustering  up  the  necessary  cour- 
age for  another  appeal  to  her  husband  in  their 
behalf.  So  that  her  bewilderment  was  as  great 
as  her  relief,  at  the  fashion  in  which  Viola  re- 
ceived some  news  that  Maroussa  told  them  one 
evening  when  she  came  to  borrow  an  egg  for 
her  grandmother.  It  was  after  dark,  and  none 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  91 

could  be  bought  at  that  hour,  it  being  firmly  be- 
lieved in  Poros  that  hens  will  not  lay  again  if 
their  eggs  are  sold  after  sunset.  There  had  been 
a  letter  from  Metro  in  Athens,  Maroussa  said, 
and  among  other  things  he  mentioned  having 
seen  Niko  Mandelli,  the  sailor  from  Poros,  walk- 
ing out  last  Sunday  afternoon  with  his  young 
bride,  the  daughter  of  a  rich  iron-founder  in 
Piraeus,  whose  dowry,  it  was  said,  was  over  fif- 
teen thousand  drachmas.  Maroussa  added  that 
his  mother,  to  whom  Niko  had  written  the  news, 
begging  her  to  keep  his  marriage  a  secret  for  the 
present,  was  nevertheless  boasting  all  over  the 
village  of  her  son's  great  good-fortune.  Viola 
listened  in  silence,  till,  catching  sight  of  her 
mother's  anxious,  almost  agonized  look  fixed  on 
her,  she  suddenly  burst  into  an  irresistible  fit 
of  laughter  and  threw  her  arms  round  her. 

"My  poor  old  manoula!  Do  you  think  I  am 
going  to  weep  or  to  faint  or  to  die?  See,  there 
is  not  the  least  little  tear.  We  shall  find  plenty 
better  than  Niko  Mandelli,  and  never  shall  I 
give  him  another  thought,  as  sure  as  my  name 
is  Viola." 

And  when  Moska,  stroking  her  hand,  asked 
tremulously,  "Are  you  perhaps  showing  courage, 
my  daughter,  that  I  should  not  be  uneasy? 
Surely,  you  must  have  had  a  shock.  Will  you 


92         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

not  lie  down  on  the  big  bed,  while  I  get  you  a 
little  orange-flower  water?  "  she  refused  laugh- 
ingly, adding,  "I  am  well,  quite  well,  manoula; 
you  shall  be  tortured  no  more,  and  hear  no 
more  angry  words." 

She  kept  her  promise,  and  was  gentle,  and 
smiled  often,  though  sometimes  she  still  sat 
buried  in  thought  under  the  great  pine  that 
grew  among  the  mulberry  trees. 

Life  went  on  very  quietly  and  steadily  in 
Poros.  The  olives  ripened,  turned  to  rich  purple- 
black  in  their  season,  and  duly  came  to  the  press, 
and  prosperity  increased  or  decreased  accord- 
ing as  it  was  a  good  or  bad  oil  year.  The  grapes 
ripened  and  were  gathered,  the  lemons  turned 
from  fragrant  white  blossom  to  green  fruit,  and 
then  to  gold,  and  in  the  long  sunny  afternoons 
the  women  sat  by  the  sea,  wrapping  them  in  fine 
paper,  and  packing  them  in  small  cases,  while 
the  boats,  which  were  to  carry  them  to  Con- 
stantinople or  Roumania  or  Odessa,  rocked 
gently  at  anchor  on  the  rippling  waves  beyond 
the  small  wooden  piers. 

About  two  years  after  Mantho's  departure, 
towards  Easter,  old  Ghika,  the  miller,  sent  an 
ambassadress,  as  the  habit  is  in  Poros,  to  ask 
for  Viola  in  marriage  for  his  son  Panayi.  The 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  93 

girl  prepared  again  for  battle  with  her  father, 
as  the  proposed  bridegroom,  though  an  under- 
sized, sickly-looking  youth,  was  reckoned  not 
only  to  be  doing  well  as  a  joiner  in  Piraeus,  but 
to  have  expectations  in  the  future,  Ghika,  his 
father,  being  well  known  as  a  miser,  and  likely 
to  have  much  put  by.  Strange  to  say,  there 
was  no  battle,  nor  even  a  skirmish.  Stamo  con- 
tented himself  by  quietly  stating  one  evening 
to  his  wife  and  daughter  that  he  had  told  Kyra 
Krinio,  the  ambassadress  in  question,  that  he 
was  much  honored,  but,  having  one  daughter 
only,  he  could  not  consent  to  her  living  away 
from  the  island.  Stranger  still,  for  in  Poros 
women  are  not  often  listened  to,  and  rarely  if 
ever  consulted,  he  turned  to  Viola,  asking, 
"Did  I  not  say  well?" 

"Very  well,  my  father,"  she  answered,  deeply 
relieved  at  this  easy  solution  of  the  difficulty 
she  had  dreaded. 

Then  old  Photi  fell  ill;  nothing  very  serious 
at  first,  just  a  little  marsh  fever  that  he  neglected, 
but  one  day  he  was  found  faint  and  shivering 
at  the  foot  of  an  olive  tree,  having  lain  there 
some  hours  with  no  strength  to  drag  himself 
as  far  as  the  little  house.  Moska,  returning  from 
the  fountain,  told  Viola  that  Kyr  Vangheli,  the 
schoolmaster,  had  sent  a  letter  to  Mantho  to 


94         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

tell  him  he  must  come  to  his  father  if  only  for 
a  few  days.  Then  a  few  days  later  some  one 
said  that  Photi  was  much  better,  and  that  when 
Mantho  arrived  he  had  found  his  father  up  and 
about;  but  this  was  again  contradicted,  and 
others  said  that  the  old  man  had  been  in  time 
to  send  word  to  his  son  not  to  trouble,  so  that  he 
was  not  coming  at  all. 

The  truth  was  that  Mantho  had  arrived  quite 
early  one  morning,  and,  finding  his  father  better 
but  not  up,  had  remained  for  two  days  shut  up 
in  their  little  house  with  him,  so  that  it  was 
only  on  the  third  day  that  he  came  across  to 
the  island.  Viola  was  the  first  to  see  him.  She 
had  been  sitting  under  the  great  pine  that 
grew  among  the  mulberry  trees,  and  her  mother, 
who  had  just  gone  out,  had  left  the  wooden  gate 
open,  so  that  Viola  sat  watching  the  sea  and  the 
few  passers-by.  It  was  some  time  after  sunset, 
and  the  bats  were  circling  above  in  the  darkening 
sky.  Pappa  Thanassi,  the  priest,  passed,  walking 
slowly,  and  gave  her  good-even  as  he  went  by; 
an  old  woman  bent  double  under  her  load  of 
brushwood,  and  Nasso,  whooping  and  screech- 
ing as  he  raced  past,  chased  by  two  boys  as 
ragged  as  himself.  Then  some  one  whose  steps 
seemed  to  hesitate  as  they  came  closer. 

Viola  looked  up  suddenly  and  saw  Mantho 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  95 

looking  at  her.  It  seemed  to  her  for  a  moment 
as  though  she  had  been  expecting  him  all  day. 
She  rose  and  advanced  towards  him. 

"Welcome,  Mantho.  I  did  not  know  for 
certain  that  you  had  returned.  Come  in."  He 
followed  her,  and  as  she  stopped  to  close  the 
gate,  she  added,  "How  is  your  father?  How 
did  you  find  him?" 

"I  thank  you,  he  is  better.  He  had  neglected 
himself,  but  I  gave  him  quinine  and  kept  him 
warm,  and  to-morrow  or  the  day  after  he  will 
be  up,  and  out  in  the  sun." 

"That  is  well.  And  have  you  found  good 
work  there,  where  you  stay?" 

"There  is  plenty  of  work  for  all  at  Kalamata." 

"And  is  it  a  fine  country?" 

"It  is  not  an  ugly  place,  and  the  people  are 
good,  but  it  is  not  the  island." 

Viola  looked  down,  and  was  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment; then,  "And  how  came  you  in  the  neigh- 
borhood this  evening?" 

"I  came,"  said  Mantho  quietly,  "that  I 
might  see  you.  Also  I  heard  your  father  was  at 
Sotiro's,  and  as  I  leave  Poros  again  in  two  days, 
I  came  near  the  house,  with  the  hope  that  per- 
haps I  might  speak  a  word  with  you,  and  learn 
whether  you  are  content,  and  whether  any  one 
makes  you  suffer." 


96         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"Did  you  come  for  that  alone?"  asked  Viola, 
looking  away  at  the  sea. 

"For  that  alone,  yes.  For  what  else  should 
I  come?'* 

"I  thought  perhaps  that  as  you  heard  I  was 
still  free,  and  that  few  had  asked  for  me,  you 
might  have  come  to  try  whether  I  were  more 
willing  now  than  two  years  ago.  Moreover, 
I  am  still  Stamo's  daughter,  and  the  oil  years 
have  been  good." 

She  looked  up  curiously  as  she  spoke,  to  see 
how  he  would  take  her  words.  It  was  so  dark 
she  could  scarcely  distinguish  his  face,  but  she 
could  hear  him  breathing  heavily. 

When  he  spoke,  his  voice  sounded  far-off  and 
toneless. 

"You  know  well  that  you  have  lied,  that  no 
such  thought  could  come  to  me.  Listen.  I  go, 
and  shall  not  return,  but  you  must  hear  first 
what  I  have  to  say.  As  I  stand  here  and  as  God 
hears  me,  never  have  I  given  a  thought  to  your 
father's  riches.  If  I  had  wished,  I  could  have 
said  naught  and  he  would  have  given  you  to 
me;  but  because  you  did  not  wish  to  marry  me, 
I  lied  to  your  father,  and  took  back  my  father's 
given  word.  They  said  bad  things  of  me,  but 
I  let  them  say.  Then  I  went  away  from  the  island, 
because,  since  you  were  afraid,  it  could  not  be 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  97 

otherwise.  I  left  the  old  man  all  alone,  and 
he  has  but  me.  I  worked  for  my  bread,  a  stranger 
in  strange  parts.  I  could  not  know  if  any  day 
that  dawned  I  might  not  hear  that  you  were 
wed.  God  knows  what  I  suffered,  but  I  swear 
before  Him  now  that  you  shall  become  a  stran- 
ger to  me.  Never  again  shall  you  say  what  you 
have  said  to-day.  They  were  unjust  words.  I 
go,  that  I  may  not  say  worse." 

He  turned  away  and  strove  to  open  the  gate, 
but  his  fingers  were  limp  and  trembling,  and  he 
could  not  do  it. 

All  at  once  Viola  rose  and  stood  before  him. 

"Yes,  they  were  unjust  words,  they  were  evil 
words,  but  you  must  forget  them.  You  must 
not  go.  I  do  not  know  why  I  said  them.  I  was 
mad,  I  think.  You  said  yourself  that  they  were 
lies.  Mantho,  you  must  not  go,  you  must  never 
go.  I  will  not  let  you  go."  And  as  he  still  strove 
with  the  latch  and  gave  her  never  a  word  or  a 
look,  "Listen,"  she  said;  "I  told  you  two  years 
ago  that  I  did  not  wish  to  marry  you,  did  I  not?  " 

"Let  me  go,"  he  muttered  harshly;  "all  that 
is  over." 

"It  is  over,  yes;  you  say  well,  it  is  over.  I  did 
not  know  then  what  I  wished.  I  thought  of  the 
other  man;  but  when  you  went  away  and  at 
night  there  was  silence  round  the  house,  and 


98         TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

I  heard  your  songs  no  more,  then  I  struck  my 
head  in  despair  and  knew  I  was  a  fool.  When 
they  told  me  he  was  married  I  was  glad,  and 
to-day  when  I  saw  you  there  was  joy  in  my  heart. 
So,  indeed,  I  cannot  think  why  I  said  the  evil 
words  that  angered  you.  Mantho,  Mantho!" 
for  he  had  opened  the  gate,  "you  must  not  go, 
oh,  you  must  not  go!" 

"Why  should  I  stay?  To-morrow  you  will 
send  me  away  again;  you  will  say  once  more 
that  it  is  your  will.  It  is  better  I  should  go. 
You  have  tortured  me  too  long." 

She  turned  away  and  sank  down  on  the  little 
bench,  hiding  her  face  hi  her  hands,  and  sway- 
ing to  and  fro. 

"Oh,  Christ!"  she  cried,  "Christ  and  Holy 
Virgin,  have  I  not  suffered  also,  and  now  he  will 
not  believe  me.  Oh,  my  God!  if  he  leaves  me  I 
shall  be  always  alone  and  there  will  be  no  one 
to  love  me,  no  one,  no  one."  Her  words  ended 
in  sobs. 

It  was  quite  dark  now.  Mantho  closed  the 
gate  softly  and  came  near  her.  "There  will  al- 
ways be  one,"  he  said,  and  then  he  stooped  over 
her  and  touched  her  wet  cheek  tenderly. 

"Let  me  tell  you,"  he  whispered;  "he  is  poor, 
the  one  who  loves  you,  but  he  is  not  old,  and 
his  arms  are  strong  to  work  for  you  and  to  hold 


UNDER  THE  MULBERRIES  99 

you.  He  is  not  very  learned  in  letters,  and  he 
does  not  know  very  much  of  the  outside  world. 
He  cannot  tell  his  secret  pain  as  other  lovers  do, 
but  he  can  sing  it  like  a  bird  in  the  woods.  He 
has  not  learned  to  bow  and  make  fine  speeches 
as  the  Franks  do,  but  he  can  love  well  in  the  old- 
fashioned  Greek  way." 

Then  he  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  they 
stood  together  under  the  great  pine  that  grew 
among  the  mulberry  trees. 


Ill 

IN  THE  CAVE 

Why  are  the  mountains  dark  and  the  hills  all  woe-begone? 
Is  it  the  wind  at  war  there,  or  the  rain  that  blots  the  sun? 

Folk-Song. 

THE  fountain  stood  quite  close  to  the  sea. 
Behind  it  rose  the  houses  nearly  up  to  the  old 
mill  on  the  top  of  the  hill.  Two  marble  dolphins 
twisted  their  tails  round  a  trident  on  the  one 
side  of  it;  on  the  other  was  an  inscription,  half- 
effaced  by  the  waves  which  splashed  against  it, 
in  the  winter,  when  the  ponente  blew.  Round  the 
fountain,  on  the  broad  stone  ledge,  the  red 
earthen  pitchers  were  waiting  their  turn  to  be 
filled,  while  the  women  stood  below,  chattering 
and  gesticulating. 

It  was  chilly  already,  though  only  mid-Octo- 
ber, and  their  thin  cotton  skirts  flapped  in  the 
wind.  Some  of  the  older  ones  had  little  black 
shawls  thrown  over  their  heads  and  shoulders. 
It  had  rained  two  or  three  times  in  the  last  week, 
and  was  preparing  to  rain  again;  Barba  Stathi, 
who  had  just  passed  with  his  donkey,  going  up 


IN  THE  CAVE  101 

to  the  hills  for  thyme,  had  looked  at  the  clouds 
over  the  Sleeper  and  told  them  so. 

There  was  always  plenty  to  talk  about  at  the 
fountain,  but  this  morning  the  women  seemed 
occupied  with  some  specially  engrossing  subject. 
The  heads  were  close  together,  and  the  piercing 
Poriote  voices  rose  high  and  shrill,  Kyra  Ma- 
rina's above  all  the  others,  notwithstanding  her 
seventy  years. 

"Patience,  patience!"  she  repeated  as  they 
crowded  round  her.  "Patience!  let  me  tell  you 
—  let  me  breathe  —  but  you  are  choking  me, 
my  poor  ones.  Yes,  yes,  they  are  here:  with 
my  own  eyes  I  saw  them,  four  of  them,  sitting 
just  inside  Sotiro's  coffee-house.  Sotiro  was 
trying  to  block  the  doorway  with  his  fat  body, 
but  I  saw  the  gleam  of  their  swords  between  his 
legs.  Eh,  eh,  I  am  old,  but  my  eyes  are  good 
yet.  I  see  most  things  that  are  to  be  seen." 

"And  many  that  are  not,"  put  in  Kyra  So- 
phoula  quietly,  as  she  placed  her  pitcher  under 
the  running  water  to  be  filled. 

"You,  Kyra  Sophoula,"  cried  the  old  woman 
furiously,  "measure  your  words  better,  will  you? 
What  I  saw  is  there  to  be  seen  by  all,  and  if  any 
one  says  the  contrary,  I'll  make  him  eat  his 
tongue  before  I  have  done  with  him.  Besides, 
who  are  you,  pray,  to  set  up  for  disbelieving  me? 


102       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

If  you  do  not  know  me  yet,  you  had  better  find 
out.  I  am  a  housekeeping  woman,  I  am;  ask 
whom  you  will.  What  do  you  take  me  for?  Am 
I  a  worker  for  strange  folks?  Have  /  ever 
scrubbed  floors  for  a  drachma  a  day  and  my 
food?  Has  any  one  ever  seen  me  gadding  about 
from  door  to  door  with  rotten  old  herbs  to 
sell?" 

These  biting  allusions  referred  to  various  nar- 
row straits  to  which  Kyra  Sophoula's  necessities 
had  sometimes  reduced  her. 

Kyra  Marina  would  have  continued  long  in 
the  same  strain,  but  she  was  interrupted  by  a 
wheezing  cough,  and  when  she  recovered  her 
breath  the  others  had  no  mind  to  let  her  waste 
it  in  an  altercation  such  as  they  might  hear 
every  day  and  twice  a  day,  if  they  were  so 
minded,  but  brought  her  back  to  the  point  of 
interest. 

"Don't  you  mind  her,  Kyra  Marina;  every 
one  knows  you  here,"  put  in  Krinio  soothingly; 
"tell  us  what  you  heard.  Is  it  for  him  the 
soldiers  are  here,  think  you?  or  for  Yanni,  per- 
haps, who  stole  old  Ghika's  sacks  of  flour?  He 
said  he  would  get  him  sent  to  prison  for  it." 

"Yanni,  indeed!"  snorted  Kyra  Marina  con- 
temptuously. "Would  four  soldiers  be  coming 
after  Yanni?  Does  an  eagle  catch  flies?  No,  no, 


IN  THE  CAVE  103 

they  are  after  Stamati  sure  enough,  and  if  he 
be  not  on  the  island,  well,  he  is  not  very  far 
away  from  it." 

"Why  all  this  fuss  about  him,  I  wonder," 
asked  Moska,  the  baker's  wife,  settling  her 
pitcher  on  her  shoulder;  "it  is  neither  the  first 
nor  the  last  time  there  has  been  a  knife  thrust 
or  a  row  between  the  prisoners  at  JSgina." 

"As  you  say,  neighbor,  neither  the  first  nor 
the  last,  but  then,  you  see,  it  was  not  another 
prisoner  Stamati  stuck  his  knife  into  this  time; 
that  would  have  been  soon  forgotten;  it  was  the 
chief  warder,  and  he  never  lived  to  say  a  word 
after  it,  either,  poor  man ! " 

There  were  voices  raised  and  there  was  a  gen- 
eral uplifting  of  arms,  some  old  women  adding, 
"God  rest  his  soul." 

"And  how  could  he  get  out  of  the  prison,  once 
he  had  done  the  evil?"  asked  Krinio,  "and  how 
came  he  here?" 

"They  say  down  on  the  quay,"  and  Kyra 
Marina  lowered  her  voice,  "that  he  was  brought 
over  by  night  in  Capetan  Leftheri's  boat  —  he 
that  was  cousin  to  Stamati's  father,  you  know. 
As  for  getting  out,  well,  a  prison  has  windows, 
though  they  may  be  high  up,  and  a  file  and  a 
rope  can  be  bought,  if  they  are  a  bit  dear.  Besides, 
it  was  night,  so  I  have  heard,  and  the  poor  warder 


104       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

was  fast  asleep  when  the  knife  was  stuck  into 
him." 

"Then  you  have  heard  a  lie!"  cried  Kyra 
Sophoula.  **  Stamati  got  into  prison  for  stabbing 
a  man  who  insulted  him,  and  he  was  always  wild 
enough,  as  all  know,  but  he  comes  of  good  blood 
and  he  would  never  kill  a  sleeping  man!" 

"I  know  what  I  know,"  said  Kyra  Marina 
shrilly;  "and  good  blood  or  bad  blood,  he  will 
do  well  to  keep  safe  hidden  now  the  soldiers  are 
here,  for  it  will  go  ill  with  him  if  they  catch  him." 

Her  granddaughter  Youla,  who  stood  close 
to  her,  turned  rather  pale.  She  was  a  handsome, 
black-haired  girl,  and  sweet  words  had  been 
exchanged  between  her  and  Stamati  some  time 
before  his  trouble,  though  they  had  ended  in 
nothing. 

"What  will  they  do  to  him  if  they  catch  him, 
Yiayia?" 

"They  will  shorten  him,  my  lass,  they  will 
shorten  him  by  a  head,  certain  sure;  aye,  by 
a  head  they  will  shorten  him."  She  repeated  it 
again  and  again,  shaking  her  wicked  old  head 
and  cackling  with  delight  over  her  grim  joke. 

As  they  were  speaking,  a  young  woman  came 
down  one  of  the  rocky  streets  that  led  from  the 
village  above,  to  the  fountain,  with  her  empty 
pitcher  in  her  hands.  She  had  a  sallow  skin,  dull 


IN  THE  CAVE  105 

brown  hair  parted  under  a  white  kerchief,  and 
walked  with  a  limp. 

Moska  saw  her  first;  she  gave  a  nudge  to 
Krinio's  elbow,  Krinio  whispered  to  Panayota, 
Panayota  to  Kyra  Marina,  and  all  faces  were 
turned  towards  her.  Somehow  no  one  had  ex- 
pected her  at  the  fountain  that  morning. 

She  limped  down  slowly,  and  putting  her 
pitcher  in  a  line  with  the  others,  sat  down  on  the 
ledge  to  wait  her  turn.  Around  her  was  dead 
silence.  Some  few  shouldered  their  pitchers  and 
walked  away,  but  the  greater  part  stood  still, 
looking  at  her  curiously. 

Suddenly  the  unusual  silence  reached  her 
senses.  She  started  up  and  faced  them. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me?  and  what  has  si- 
lenced your  tongues?  Are  you  struck  dumb,  all 
of  you?  You  were  talking  fast  enough  as  I  came 
down  the  street.  Of  what  were  you  talking?'* 

Kyra  Sophoula  laid  a  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Nothing,  Chryssi,  my  girl,  nothing;  it  was 
only  that—  " 

But  Kyra  Marina  interrupted  her  viciously. 

"If  you  must  know,  we  were  talking  of  your 
precious  lover  Stamati,  whom  the  soldiers  have 
come  after.  Eh,  but  he  will  look  fine  going  to 
Athens  in  the  steamer  with  the  irons  on  his  legs ! " 

"If  he  has  fled  from  prison,"  said  Chryssi  sul- 


106       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

lenly,  "they  will  take  him  back  to  it.  What  need 
of  Athens?" 

"He  goes  to  be  judged  again,"  put  in  Moska; 
"it  seems  he  has  killed  another  man." 

A  dull  red  flush  covered  the  girl's  sallow  cheeks. 

"Another!"  she  shouted  angrily.  "Who  says 
another?  Who  dares  say  that  the  man  he  stabbed 
three  years  ago  was  killed?  —  that  he  has  not 
been  enjoying  his  life  all  these  years,  drinking  and 
guzzling  all  day  long,  stretched  at  his  ease  on 
three  chairs,  the  great  fat  pig,  while  my  lad  was 
pining  in  prison?  And  if  he  has  killed  a  man  now? 
the  great  affair!  It  must  have  been  some  one 
who  insulted  his  honor  and  deserved  his  fate." 

"Ah,  but  this  time,"  said  Kyra  Marina  tri- 
umphantly, "he  has  done  for  himself.  I  thank 
the  Holy  Virgin  that  Youla  here  was  afraid  of 
your  curses  when  he  turned  from  your  yellow 
face  to  her  pink  one,  and  let  him  go.  I  thought 
her  a  white-livered  fool  at  the  time,  but  now 
I  see  it  was  God  enlightened  her,  God  Himself 
who  enlightened  her.  If  Vangheli  be  a  bit 
shorter  and  weaker  than  your  Stamati,  at  any 
rate  no  one  will  ever  see  him  dragged  away  from 
her  in  irons;  and  if  his  head  be  not  as  handsome, 
at  least  he  will  never  get  it  chopped  off  for  stab- 
bing a  defenseless  Christian  in  his  sleep." 

The  girl  caught  up  her  empty  pitcher  and 


IN  THE  CAVE  107 

flew  wildly  at  the  old  woman,  and  had  it  not 
been  for  Moska  and  Kyra  Sophoula,  who  seized 
hold  of  her  promptly,  one  on  each  side,  it  might 
have  gone  badly  with  Kyra  Marina. 

Chryssi  struggled  violently  for  freedom,  and 
the  words  tumbled  over  one  another  so  that  her 
utterance  was  thick  and  indistinct. 

"You  ugly  fool!"  she  cried  out  furiously, 
"you  wicked  old  liar!  May  your  legs  shrivel 
and  wither  up!  May  your  lying  tongue  choke 
you!  My  Stamati  kill  a  sleeping  man!  He,  to 
touch  any  one  who  did  not  stand  up  against 
him  with  another  knife  in  his  hand !  A  bad  year 
to  you  for  such  evil  words!  —  a  bad  year  to  you! 
Say  it  again  if  you  dare!  You  filthy  old  hag, 
say  it  again!" 

But  Kyra  Marina  had  no  desire  to  repeat  her 
words;  she  had  said  what  she  meant  to  say;  be- 
sides which,  the  girl  looked  like  one  possessed  of 
a  demon  and  capable  of  any  violence;  so  the  old 
woman  hobbled  off  in  a  hurry,  followed  by 
Youla,  who  kept  casting  frightened  glances  be- 
hind her. 

The  others  dispersed  in  silence,  and  Kyra 
Sophoula,  who  stayed  behind,  placed  Chryssi's 
pitcher  under  the  fountain  and  stood  beside  it 
waiting.  The  girl,  her  fury  spent,  sank  down 
again  on  the  step,  her  head  in  her  hands.  •- 


108       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

The  water  ran  into  the  pitcher  in  an  ascending 
scale  of  liquid  sound,  filled  it,  gurgled  and  over- 
flowed. 

"The  jar  is  full,  my  child,  the  water  trickles 
over." 

"Let  it  be;  I  want  no  water.'* 

"Nay,  come  what  may  to  us,  we  shall  want 
bread  and  water  till  we  close  our  eyes.  Come, 
take  up  your  jar  and  walk  with  me  to  my  house. 
Maroussa  has  something  she  would  show  you." 

"I  thank  you;  but  I  will  go  to  no  house  where 
that  evil  thing  is  believed  of  my  Stamati.  Kyra 
Sophoula,  you  are  a  good  woman;  it  is  not  true, 
say  it  is  not  true?" 

"It  is  not  like  the  lad  as  I  knew  him,  but  one 
can  never  tell.  They  meet  so  many  bad  men  in 
those  prisons,  and  it  is  three  years  he  has  been 
there.  But  listen,  Chryssi,"  and  she  lowered  her 
voice,  "  true  or  not,  still  the  soldiers  are  here, 
that  is  true  enough;  but  they  are  from  Athens, 
they  do  not  know  the  country,  and  it  may  be 
some  time  before  they  find  him.  Would  you 
not  wish,  perhaps,  to  send  him  word,  or  let 
him  know — " 

The  girl  started  up,  all  the  blood  left  her  face, 
and  she  clutched  hold  of  the  old  woman's  arm. 

"Then  you  know! — you  can  tell  me!  Is  it 
near?  Good  God,  is  it  near? " 


IN  THE  CAVE  109 

"  'S-s-h!  s-h!  Not  so  loud,  not  so  loud!  Come 
to  the  house  with  me.  [Barba  Stathi  said  a  word 
in  my  ear  when  I  brought  him  out  a  crust  for  his 
beast.  He  knows  the  hills  well." 

The  wind  had  risen,  and  as  they  trudged  up 
the  street,  the  lame  girl  hardly  keeping  up  with 
the  wiry  old  woman,  the  heavy  clouds  were 
lowering  and  a  few  drops  fell. 

Chryssi  stayed  some  time  in  Kyra  Sophoula's 
little  house  with  the  covered  terrace,  and  about 
an  hour  after  she  had  entered  it,  Maroussa, 
Kyra  Sophoula's  pretty,  black-haired  grand- 
daughter, might  have  been  seen  hurrying  back 
to  the  house  with  one  of  the  boys  from  Capetan 
Leftheri's  boat.  It  was  after  the  big  clock  in 
the  tower  of  the  Naval  School  had  struck  two 
that  Chryssi,  holding  a  small  bottle  of  yellow 
wine  in  her  hand,  came  down  the  wooden  stairs 
that  led  from  the  terrace  to  the  narrow  court- 
yard full  of  the  small  orange  chrysanthemums, 
"Saint  Dimitri's  flowers,"  that  were  in  full  bloom 
just  then. 

She  never  gave  them  a  glance,  though  being 
a  Poriote  woman  she  was  fond  of  flowers,  but 
brushed  past  them,  limped  down  the  street, 
passed  under  the  dark  arch,  and  climbed  up  some 
steps  cut  in  the  rock,  with  a  painful  upheaval  of 
one  side  of  her  body  at  the  mounting  of  each 


110       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

step,  till  she  reached  the  door  of  her  own.  little 
blue-washed  house.  She  stopped  a  moment 
before  entering,  raised  her  head,  and  passed  her 
hand  over  her  eyes.  The  heavy  black  clouds  ef- 
faced the  Sleeper  entirely  from  the  horizon,  and 
as  she  stood  there  watching,  the  sea  turned 
leaden  and  looked  almost  solid.  A  pale  metallic 
light  was  over  all  the  bay;  after  a  few  seconds  of 
stillness,  of  waiting,  a  cold  rush  of  air  raised 
whirlwinds  of  leaves  and  dust  before  it,  and 
then  the  whole  heavens  seemed  to  open  in  one 
sheet  of  water. 

She  pushed  open  the  door,  and  closing  it 
after  her  turned  the  big  key  in  the  lock  with  both 
her  hands,  for  she  was  not  very  strong.  There 
was  a  bare,  comfortless  kitchen  flagged  with 
rough  gray  stones.  The  girl  closed  the  wooden 
shutters  of  the  two  windows,  fastening  the  win- 
dow panes  inside  them.  The  rain  pattered 
against  the  shutters,  and  the  light  in  the  room 
was  dim.  Quickly  she  took  off  her  white  ker- 
chief and  covered  her  head  and  shoulders  with  a 
little  black  shawl;  over  her  cotton  skirt  she  put 
on  a  heavier  one  of  rough  gray  homespun  wool, 
and  slipped  her  feet  into  a  pair  of  yellow  leather 
shoes  that  had  once  been  her  father's.  She  stole 
across  the  room  and  knelt  down  before  her 
mother's  dower  chest.  It  was  not  a  highly 


IN  THE  CAVE  111 

polished  one  such  as  most  of  the  Poriote  women 
possessed,  but  a  rough  wooden  one  painted  a 
bright  blue;  they  had  always  been  poor.  From 
under  a  pile  of  coarse  towels  neatly  marked  in 
red  she  drew  out  a  checked  handkerchief  tightly 
knotted  up.  Its  contents  crackled  as  she  thrust 
it  into  the  bosom  of  her  gown. 

Taking  up  the  bottle  of  wine  which  she  had 
left  on  the  table,  she  put  it  with  a  good  half  of 
a  big  brownish  loaf  into  a  deep  hanging  pocket 
which  she  tied  carefully  round  her  waist.  Then 
she  limped  to  the  door  and  listened:  nothing 
but  the  steady  downpour  of  the  rain  —  no  pass- 
ing steps.  She  turned  the  key  gently  and  looked 
out. 

"The  waterfalls  of  heaven  have  opened," 
she  muttered;  "so  much  the  better,  so  much 
the  better;  what  Christian  will  venture  up  the 
hills  on  such  a  day?" 

She  stepped  resolutely  over  the  threshold. 
The  rain  poured  down  with  tropical  violence.  It 
came  in  blinding  sheets,  poured  countless 
streams  tinged  with  the  red  earth  of  the  hills 
into  the  bay,  changing  its  color  to  a  muddy 
brown  and  turning  all  the  island  into  a  mist 
of  watery  gray. 

Chryssi  held  her  shawl  on  tightly  over  her 
bent  head  with  both  hands,  and  ran  down,  as 


112       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

fast  as  her  lameness  would  let  her,  to  the  water's 
edge. 

A  little  boat  was  stationed  under  the  low  sea- 
wall, and  a  lad  was  standing  up  in  it,  clinging  to 
the  rough  stones  of  the  wall  with  his  hands,  as 
there  were  no  iron  rings  in  that  part  of  it.  Close 
by  was  a  confused  shape  of  mingled  man  and 
beast,  scarcely  discernible  in  the  driving  rain. 

"Barba  Stathi,  is  it  you?" 

"It  is  I.  Come;  the  lad  waits  and  the  waves 
lift  the  boat;  it  is  hard  to  hold." 

"You  have  seen  no  one  pass?" 

"Not  a  soul." 

"Where  are  they  now,  think  you?" 

The  old  man  stroked  the  donkey's  wet  ears 
as  he  answered  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"At  the  tavern  still.  Nasso  here  heard  them 
say  they  must  be  moving,  but  Sotiro  was  just 
bringing  out  another  oke  of  retsinato,  and  it  will 
not  be  just  yet  that  they  will  start." 

"Oh,  my  God!  an  oke  is  soon  drunk,  and  they 
are  four." 

"  They  have  to  find  the  road,  remember;  and 
where  there  are  four  men  there  are  four  minds. 
Do  not  fear,  you  will  be  there  long  before  them." 

"You  said  the  little  path  above  the  third  ra- 
vine, right  over  the  old  chapel?" 
-    "Yes;  the  koumara  are  red  on  the  bushes  all 


IN  THE  CAVE  113 

about  the  path,  and  almost  close  up  the  en- 
trance to  the  cave;  you  will  find  it  easily." 

"I  thank  you  again,  and  may  God  rest  your 
dead,  Barba  Stathi,  for  this  that  you  have  done 
for  me." 

"It  is  nothing.  Go;  and  may  the  Holy  Virgin 
be  with  you." 

The  girl  wrapped  the  shawl  more  tightly 
round  her,  stepped  down  into  the  boat,  and  the 
boy  rowed  rapidly  away  towards  the  mainland. 

Far  up  above  the  village  of  Galata,  beyond 
the  olive  grove  that  rises  behind  it,  the  mountain 
is  scored  by  long-forgotten  torrents  into  a  series 
of  deep  ravines.  The  district  is  almost  entirely 
uninhabited,  and  though  there  are  no  great 
heights  to  climb,  there  are  some  narrow  passes 
and  steep  descents.  The  vegetation  is  richer  and 
more  varied  than  on  the  island,  and  myrtle, 
oleander,  and  arbutus  close  up  the  narrow  goat 
tracks.  Clinging  plants  encircle  the  trunks  of 
the  tallest  trees  and  hang  in  festoons  from  one 
to  the  other.  Here  and  there  halfway  up  the 
gorges  there  are  shallow  caves,  often  only  to  be 
reached  by  steep  passes,  so  hidden  in  the  tangled 
vegetation  that  very  few  know  of  them.  In  the 
old  days  these  were  the  hiding-places  of  the 
klephts,  but  now  they  only  serve  in  the  colder 
months  to  shelter  some  belated  shepherd  search- 


1H       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND! 

ing  for  a  lost  kid,  or  now  and  again  some  fugi- 
tive from  justice,  or  a  stray  deserter. 

Two  hours  after  Chryssi  had  stepped  out  of 
the  boat  in  the  pouring  rain  at  Galata,  where  no 
one  had  been  out  of  doors  or  even  on  a  terrace 
or  at  a  window,  to  inquire  curiously  about  her 
errand,  she  was  climbing  down  a  steep  goat 
track  leading  to  one  of  these  small  caves.  The 
storm  was  over,  though  the  air  was  still  very 
chilly.  The  leaves  glistened  and  the  trunks  of 
the  trees  were  darker.  Far  below,  a  thin  line 
of  smoke  from  the  chimney  of  the  highest  in- 
habited hut  above  the  village  was  the  only  sign 
of  living  humanity. 

The  girl  moved  very  cautiously,  holding  aside 
the  red-berried  branches  of  the  arbutus  which 
blocked  her  way.  She  bent  almost  double  as 
she  advanced,  so  that  the  shrubs  should  hide 
her,  and  kept  constantly  throwing  back  glances 
along  the  way  she  had  come.  Her  limp  was  pain- 
fully evident,  for  the  way  had  been  long  and  the 
paths  stony.  Suddenly  the  track  turned  abruptly 
to  the  left  and  faced  a  low  dark  opening  in  the 
rock,  half  hidden  by  dwarf  oak  trees  and  tall 
white  oleanders.  Chryssi  dragged  herself  up  the 
remaining  rocks,  and,  pushing  aside  the  arbutus 
branches,  bent  her  head  and  entered  the  cave. 

Inside,  it  was  dim  and  chilly.   A  man  was  ly- 


IN  THE  CAVE  115 

ing  on  a  heap  of  dry  pine  branches.  A  man 
about  thirty,  worn  and  haggard-looking.  He 
had  a  fine  head,  broad-browed  and  straight- 
featured,  but  three  years  of  prison  life  had  re- 
placed the  sunburn  by  a  sickly  pallor,  and  had 
bent  the  eyebrows  into  a  continual  scowl.  His 
left  arm,  in  a  sort  of  extemporized  sling,  was 
fastened  to  his  waist;  his  right  hand,  bound  in 
blood-stained  rags,  lay  stretched  out  before 
him.  The  rags  were  soiled  and  had  been  tied  on 
some  time,  but  there  were  fresh  blood-stains 
among  the  old  ones. 

He  was  not  asleep,  and  started  up  wildly  as 
the  girl  darkened  the  light  by  standing  before 
the  opening. 

"You!5*  he  cried,  "you!  how  did  you  come? 
Are  you  alone?  Is  all  safe?"  Then  he  leaned 
against  the  rock  with  a  suppressed  groan,  for  he 
had  helped  himself  up  by  his  wounded  hand. 

"I  am  alone;  have  no  fear."  She  came  nearer 
half  timidly.  "Your  hand  is  hurt?" 

"Yes;  both  of  them,  curse  them." 

"How  did  it  happen?" 

"This  one  was  scalded  with  boiling  water 
when  I  helped  to  move  the  big  washing  caldrons, 
there  at  JSgina;  the  other  I  caught  between  two 
stones  of  a  wall." 

"When  you  got  away?" 


116      .TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"Yes." 

"Do  they  pain  much?" 

"That  would  not  matter,  but  the  fingers  are 
all  smashed  up.  I  cannot  move  them." 

He  stepped  past  her  and  looked  cautiously 
out,  up  and  down  the  ravine,  and  above  on  the 
heights;  then  he  came  into  the  cave  again,  let 
himself  fall  on  the  pine  branches,  and  looked  up 
at  her  curiously. 

"How  did  you  find  me?  " 

"They  said  you  were  in  the  hills  about  here, 
and  some  one  who  saw  you  told  me." 

"Who?  I  have  seen  no  one." 

"But  he  saw  you." 

"Barba  Stathi,  was  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Ah,  he  must  have  come  close  to  the  opening 
then  yesterday  when  I  slept,  for  just  as  I  woke 
I  heard  a  donkey  braying  in  the  distance,  and 
when  I  looked  out  there  was  no  one  in  sight;  but 
I  thought  it  could  only  be  Barba  Stathi's  beast 
up  here  in  the  hills.  It  does  not  matter  much; 
the  old  man  will  never  open  his  mouth  to  say  a 
word  to  a  stranger." 

"No;  there  is  no  fear." 

Chryssi  leaned  against  the  damp  wall  of  the 
cave  to  rest  her  leg,  and  untied  the  pocket  from 
round  her  waist. 


IN  THE  CAVE  117 

"I  have  brought  you  food." 

"Bring  it  here;  bring  it  here  quickly  then.  I 
made  Yannako  from  the  stani  up  above  give  me 
a  bowl  of  goat's  milk  yesterday,  and  I  have  had 
nought  since." 

The  girl  set  the  bread  before  him  on  the 
branches,  and  pulled  out  the  stopper  of  the 
bottle. 

"Well,"  he  asked  irritably  after  a  moment's 
pause,  "why  do  you  stand  still  and  look  at  me? 
Cannot  you  see  that  I  have  no  use  of  my  hands? 
Do  you  expect  me  to  browse  like  a  goat?  You 
were  ever  a  slow-witted  maid!" 

She  did  not  answer,  but,  kneeling  beside  him, 
broke  the  bread  and  began  to  feed  him  with  the 
pieces.  She  did  it  awkwardly,  sometimes  offer- 
ing him  a  second  before  he  had  finished  the  first, 
and  sometimes  gazing  abstractedly  before  her 
while  he  waited.  Two  or  three  times  he  looked 
towards  the  bottle  and  she  lifted  it  for  him  to 
drink.  This  also  she  did  too  high  or  too  low,  and 
the  wine  trickled  down  his  chin.  At  last  he  wiped 
his  mouth  on  his  sleeve  and  pushed  away  the 
rest  of  the  bread  with  his  elbow. 

"Help  me  up,  if  you  can,"  he  said. 

She  put  her  hands  under  his  arms  and  helped 
him  to  stand  upright.  His  clothes  were  old  and 
torn,  with  stains  of  moist  reddish  earth  about 


118       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

them.  In  his  belt  was  a  pistol,  and  his  burnt  arm 
was  strapped  to  his  body  just  above  it. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then,  as  though  suddenly  recog- 
nizing the  danger  of  inaction,  she  started  and 
said  hurriedly,  — 

"Stamati,  you  must  not  stay  here.  The  sol- 
diers are  down  in  the  village;  four  of  them.  They 
were  seen  at  Sotiro's.  When  I  left,  they  were 
drinking  still,  but  they  had  talked  of  starting." 

"Did  you  see  them  yourself,  or  did  they  tell 
you  so?"  he  asked  in  a  voice  in  which  there  was 
more  curiosity  than  alarm. 

"I  did  not  see  them,  but  I  know  they  are 
there;  many  saw  them.  That  old  hag  Kyra  Ma- 
rina told  me  of  it  first.  She  was  glad,  of  course, 
because  of  Youla.  She  said,  too,  before  all  the 
others  at  the  fountain, —  and  may  evil  find  her  ! 
—  she  said  that  this  man  who  is  dead,  this  prison- 
keeper,  —  that  you  killed  him  at  night  while  he 
slept!  —  you!  —  you!  They  did  not  let  me  tear 
her  to  pieces  for  her  lies,  but  I  will  do  it  yet,  as 
sure  as  they  call  me  Chryssi." 

"You  need  not." 

"Stamati,"  she  cried,  "it  is  not  true?" 

"It  is  true,"  he  answered  sullenly. 

"No,  no;  not  that;  it  is  not  possible." 

"It  is  true,"  he  repeated  doggedly;  "and  why 


IN  THE  CAVE  119 

not?  The  brute  insulted  the  honor  of  my  father 
before  all  the  lads.  I  had  to  kill  him.  I  could  not 
do  it  the  moment  the  evil  words  left  his  lying 
mouth,  for  the  others  would  have  fallen  on  me, 
the  cowards,  to  curry  favor,  though  they  all 
hated  him.  Do  you  think,  perhaps,  a  prison  is 
like  the  village,  or  the  hills,  where  you  can  strike 
when  you  will?  At  night  when  he  slept  I  stuck 
the  knife  between  his  shoulder  blades  and  ran  for 
it.  Capetan  Leftheri  had  stood  treat  to  the  sen- 
tinels, and  they  were  dead  drunk." 

"You  killed  him?" 

"He  had  insulted  my  father;  I  struck  deep 
enough  to  have  killed  twenty  men." 

"And  he  never  heard  you?  —  he  slept?" 

"Aye,  he  slept  well,  I  tell  you;  slept,  and  never 
woke  again." 

The  girl  closed  her  teeth  tightly  and  there  was 
silence  for  a  minute;  then:  "It  is  all  the  more 
need  that  you  should  go." 

"Where  can  I  go?" 

"Do  I  know?  —  over  the  hills,  perhaps,  to 
Metochi.  I  can  tell  Capetan  Leftheri,  when  I  go 
back,  to  go  there  with  his  boat  and  meet  you. 
And  when  you  reach  Katochi  you  can  go  to 
Yoryi  the  blacksmith, — Yoryi  Kostopoulos,  he 
is  my  mother's  cousin;  a  good  man;  he  will  not 
turn  you  away  or  betray  you.  Also,  I  have 


120       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

brought  a  little  money."  And  she  felt  in  the 
bosom  of  her  gown  for  the  knotted  handkerchief. 

Instead  of  answering,  the  man  went  to  the 
opening  of  the  cave  and  looked  out. 

"Hush! "  he  said.  "I  thought  I  heard  a  noise 
in  the  ravine  below";  then,  after  a  moment's 
suspense:  "No,  it  was  nothing." 

Chryssi  touched  his  arm.  "You  will  go?"  she 
said. 

He  turned  on  her  angrily.  "You  are  mad! 
Will  you  tell  me  with  your  great  wisdom  and 
with  your  wonderful  plans  how  I  may  get  so  far 
to-night,  or  to-morrow  either,  with  my  hands  as 
you  see  them?  If  I  stumble  and  fall  on  the  way  I 
shall  stay  there  like  a  log  till  they  find  me." 

"And  —  if  they  find  you?" 

"They  will  keep  me;  that  you  may  be  sure  of; 
and  send  me  to  Athens  in  the  steamer." 

"And  — after?" 

He  laughed  harshly.  "After,  it  would  be 
Nauplia,  and  the  guillotine." 

She  raised  both  her  hands  suddenly  and  put 
them  round  his  neck  as  though  to  protect  it. 

"Stamati,"  she  whispered  hurriedly,  "listen 
to  me;  there  is  little  time  left,  and  I  am  afraid. 
You  must  leave  this  cave  now,  at  once;  some  one 
may  know  of  it.  You  say  Yannako  saw  you,  and 
I  am  not  sure  of  him;  he  would  sell  his  mother 


IN  THE  CAVE  121 

for  money.  You  must  hide  somewhere  close  by, 
and  I  will  stay  here  and  deceive  them  if  they 
come.  I  will  cry  and  say  I  could  not  find  you,  and 
they  will  look  elsewhere.  Then  as  soon  as  the 
dark  falls  you  must  move  on  towards  Metochi. 
As  for  your  hands  —  well,  God  be  a  help!" 

"How  can  you  stay  here?"  he  asked.  "You 
can  never  deceive  them.  Besides,  they  are  four 
men,  and  they  have  been  drinking  all  day;  if 
they  should  maltreat  you?" 

"Well,  and  if  they  should  —  what  then?  You 
will  have  time  to  get  away." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"You  are  a  brave  lass,"  he  said,  "and  we  have 
had  some  good  days  together.  Do  you  remember 
the  big  walnut  tree  by  the  spring?  " 

A  light  came  into  her  eyes. 

"Could  I  forget?  I  go  there  sometimes  now, 
and  ask  the  stones  and  the  trees  if  they  remem- 
ber those  days." 

"It  was  not  written  by  Fate  that  they  should 
last,"  he  said;  "but  you  were  a  good  girl  always, 
and  a  kind  one." 

"And  yet"  —  her  voice  trembled  —  "there 
was  a  time  when  you  would  have  left  me  for 
Youla." 

He  laughed. 

"A  man  is  a  man;  you  were  a  good  girl,  as  I 


122       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

said,  but  she  was  a  handsome  one,  and  moreover 
her  legs  were  straight." 

The  girl  caught  her  lower  lip  between  her 
teeth,  and  her  arms  fell  from  about  his  neck. 

"You  must  go,"  she  said  again;  "you  must  go 
now  at  once." 

"It  will  be  no  use,"  he  answered,  "even  if  I 
could  walk  straight  in  the  night  with  no  hands  to 
help,  how  can  I  lift  food  to  my  lips,  how  can  I 
drink?  How  can  I  strike  out  against  a  sheep  dog 
if  he  fly  at  my  throat?  No;  let  me  be." 

"But  they  will  kill  you  if  they  take  you,"  she 
wailed. 

"They  will  not  kill  me." 

"But  if  you  stay  here  they  will  take  you,  if  not 
to-day,  then  to-morrow,"  she  persisted;  "and  if 
they  take  you,  they  will  surely  kill  you.  Did  you 
not  say  so  yourself?" 

He  looked  down  slowly  at  his  belt. 

"Need  they  take  me  —  alive?" 

"Ah!"  with  a  smothered  cry,  "Christ,  and 
Holy  Virgin !  not  that !  —  not  that !  My  Stamati, 
for  the  name  of  God,  not  that!  Wait,  we  must 
think  of  something;  let  me  think,"  passing  her 
hand  over  her  eyes;  "there  must  be  something 
else.  Let  me  go  back  to  Poros  —  now,  at  once.  I 
will  bring  Barba  Stathi,  he  knows  the  hills  well; 
he  must  guide  you  to  Metochi.  We  can  pay  him 


IN  THE  CAVE  123 

if  need  be;  I  have  still  some  things  of  my  mother's 
left  I  can  sell.  With  him  and  the  beast  you  can 
go  far  —  and  afterwards  — " 

He  was  not  listening  to  what  she  said,  but  to 
something  farther  away.  She  saw  it,  and  stopped 
with  dilated  eyes. 

He  left  her,  and,  going  quite  outside  the  cave, 
crouched  down  behind  a  big  rock  and  craned  his 
neck  to  see  better  down  the  ravine. 

She  waited,  shivering.  After  a  moment  he 
came  back,  his  teeth  tightly  clenched. 

"Now,  listen,"  he  said;  "we  must  say  things 
quickly.  They  are  below  in  the  ravine.  In  five 
minutes  they  will  be  here.  There  is  one  thing  I 
ask  of  you  —  will  you  do  it?" 

She  clung  to  him  in  silence. 

"If  they  would  take  me  and  shoot  me  here  at 
once,  it  would  be  well;  but  if  they  take  me  it 
means  Nauplia,  the  open  square,  the  public 
shame;  and  Niko  Davelli's  son  cannot  die  in  that 
way.  My  grandfather,  you  know  it,  was  one  of 
the  few  who  came  down  from  Suli  with  Botzaris; 
my  father  was  a  brave  man.  These  things  can- 
not be.  If  I  could  use  my  hands,  it  would  be  over 
now!  But  see,  I  cannot  even  lift  the  pistol,  how 
could  I  draw  the  trigger?  But  you!  You  are  a 
brave  girl,  Chryssi,  and  if  you  have  ever  loved 
me,  you  will  do  it." 


124       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"I!  Oh,  my  God!  what  are  you  asking  of  me! 
I?  I  cannot,  I  cannot!'* 

"Chryssi,  my  Chryssi,  my  Chryssoula,  you 
will  not  let  them  bind  me  and  slaughter  me  like 
an  ox  at  the  butcher's?  Chryssi!  —  I  hear  them 
—  Oh,  Chryssi,  do  not  fail  me  now.  I  have  no 
one  but  you  to  do  this  thing  for  me.  Take  the 
pistol  from  my  belt,  —  take  it!  For  your  father's 
soul,  for  the  name  of  God,  if  you  have  ever 
loved  me,  Chryssi,  take  it ! " 

And  as  she  drew  it  from  his  belt  he  put  his  lips 
to  hers. 

The  three  soldiers  with  their  sergeant,  and 
Yannako  the  shepherd  beside  them,  were  not 
ten  paces  from  the  opening  of  the  cave,  when 
there  was  a  sharp  report  and  a  fall. 

They  started  forward  and  came  face  to  face 
with  a  woman  who  ran  out,  and  then  stood  quite 
still  and  looked  at  them  with  wide-open  eyes. 

It  was  no  heroic  figure  they  saw.  Just  the 
girl  with  her  sallow  face  and  clumsy  figure,  her 
black  shawl  trailing  behind  her,  and  the  smoking 
pistol  in  her  hand. 

"You  can  search,"  she  muttered  indistinctly, 
"aye,  you  can  search;  you  will  only  find  a  corpse 
for  your  pains." 

And  as  the  men  rushed  past  her  she  fell  in  a 
tumbled  heap  among  the  lentisk  bushes. 


YOU  CAN  SEARCH;  AYE,  YOU  CAN  SEARCH 


IV 

NORTH    AND   SOUTH 

.  .  .  Under  the  burning  slopes, 
Where  summer  through  the  oleanders  blow 
Rose-red  among  the  shadows,  and  the  air 
Is  lightly  scented  with  the  myrtle  bloom. 

RENNELL  ROOD. 

KATHARINE  SHERMAN,  the  American  girl  who 
loved  Poros  so  well  that  this  was  the  third  time 
in  two  years  that  she  was  staying  in  the  island, 
had  crossed  over  this  morning  to  one  of  the  old 
gardens  on  the  mainland,  where  the  trees  grow 
so  low  down  on  the  seashore  that  the  overhang- 
ing branches  often  dip  in  the  water. 

One  of  the  strong  north  winds  that  sometimes 
blow  in  July  and  August  was  covering  the  sea 
with  frothy  whitecapped  waves,  and  Katharine 
had  been  drenched  two  or  three  times  with  the 
salt  spray  while  crossing  over  from  the  island  in 
the  sailing-boat.  It  had  been  delicious,  though, 
with  the  boat  heeling  over,  the  sail  spread  to  the 
fresh  wind,  one  of  old  Louka's  boatmen  with  his 
hand  on  the  small  ropes  ready  to  let  the  sail  slip 
down  at  any  unexpected  gust,  and  Dino,  the  son 
of  Yoryi  the  blind  one,  sitting  at  the  helm. 


126       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

Katharine  had  arrived  only  the  day  before, 
and  had  found  her  old  room  in  the  little  pink- 
washed  hotel  on  the  quay  duly  kept  for  her. 
Dino  was  the  first  old  acquaintance  she  had  met. 
He  told  her  shyly  that  he  was  earning  independ- 
ent wages  now,  ever  since  the  last  Feast  of  the 
Virgin,  and  could  provide  his  own  boots.  Kath- 
arine glanced  inquiringly  at  his  bare  brown  feet, 
but  was  promptly  told  that  the  boots  were  nat- 
urally only  for  Sunday  and  holiday  wear.  When, 
after  a  good  deal  of  tacking,  the  boat  touched  at 
the  little  wooden  pier  of  the  garden,  Katharine 
jumped  out,  paid  the  men,  and  told  them  not  to 
wait.  She  would  walk  back,  she  said,  through 
Galata,  and  cross  where  the  port  narrowed. 

She  ran  up  to  the  end  of  the  long  avenue  of 
cypress  trees,  so  tall  that  only  a  narrow  strip 
of  deep  summer-blue  sky  showed  above  them, 
and  halfway  back  again,  before  she  stopped  to 
rest,  leaning  against  one  of  the  rugged  straight 
trunks. 

Good  God,  how  beautiful  it  was!  How  glad 
she  felt  that  she  had  refused  to  follow  her  sister 
to  Switzerland,  but  had  braved  the  heat  of  a 
summer  in  Greece  to  see  her  beloved  Southern 
land  in  all  its  splendor.  It  was  even  more  beau- 
tiful than  she  remembered  it. 

Below  the  cypress  trees  the  taller,  straggling 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  127 

branches  of  the  oleanders  formed  an  archway, 
and  she  stood  under  a  perfect  glory  of  rose-red 
and  white  blossoms.  Many  of  these  climbed 
right  up  into  the  trees,  and  stood  out  in  vivid 
rose-pink  against  the  dense  black  foliage.  Be- 
hind her  was  a  long  vine-clad  pergola  heavily 
laden  with  bunches  of  still  unripe  grapes;  before 
her,  away  down  the  avenue,  the  wide  wooden 
gate,  between  its  tall  stone  posts,  leading  out  on 
to  the  shore.  One  of  the  sides  was  thrown  back, 
and  through  the  opening  the  deep  sapphire  of  the 
sea  gleamed  in  the  sun  blaze,  while  showers  of 
dazzling  white  spray  covered  the  little  pier. 

Katharine  had  thought  she  knew  Poros  in  all 
its  phases  and  was  familiar  with  all  its  lovely 
changes,  but  this  summer  wind  was  new  to  her. 
Slowly  she  came  down  the  avenue,  drinking  in 
the  beauty  and  the  light,  and  listening  to  the  con- 
tinuous chirping  of  the  tettix  on  all  sides  of  her. 

In  the  open  space  down  by  the  gate,  the  wind 
was  tossing  the  tops  of  the  giant  eucalyptus  trees 
to  and  fro,  turning  their  feathery  bunches  of  nar- 
row leaves  into  blurs  of  whitish  green.  Long 
strips  of  bark  hung  in  loose  ends,  laying  bare  the 
smooth  gray-blue  trunks. 

They  were  picking  lemons  in  the  garden.  The 
gatherers,  women  and  children,  carried  their 
laden  panniers  on  their  shoulders  into  the  spa- 


128       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND" 

cious  white-washed  barn,  where  the  packers 
awaited  them. 

Katharine  stood  in  the  open  doorway  looking 
in.  It  was  cool  and  pleasant  inside.  On  the 
broad  sill  of  the  low  window  the  water  was  cool- 
ing for  the  workers,  in  rows  of  earthen  jars.  The 
lemons  lay  in  yellow  heaps  on  the  floor,  and  the 
women  and  girls  were  twisting  them,  with  in- 
credible rapidity,  into  fine  tissue  paper  wrap- 
pers, and  laying  them  in  rows  in  the  small  cases, 
bound  for  Odessa  or  Roumania. 

Many  of  the  workers  looked  up  smiling.  The 
foreign  lady  with  her  light  step,  her  pretty 
clothes,  and  her  shining  dark  hair  was  a  familiar 
figure  to  most  of  them,  and  in  a  vague  way  they 
were  pleased  to  see  her  in  Poros  once  more. 

The  master  of  the  garden,  a  thin  man  bearing 
an  old  historic  name,  came  forward  with  words 
of  greeting,  and  the  offer  of  a  seat,  but  Katharine 
would  not  stay.  She  could  not  rest  long  in  one 
place.  She  longed  to  see  and  enjoy  everything  at 
the  same  time.  And  when  she  stood  a  few  mo- 
ments later  in  the  lemon  orchard  where  beyond 
the  wall  the  sea  line  showed  purple,  —  Homer's 
"wine-colored"  sea,  —  when  the  scent  of  the 
lemon  blossom  and  the  myrtle,  and  the  shivering 
of  the  eucalyptus  leaves  were  about  her,  all  the 
old  island  sights  and  scents  and  sounds,  —  she 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  129 

felt  as  though  she  might  open  her  arms  wide,  and 
clasp  them  to  her  heart. 

Suddenly,  in  the  distance,  among  the  many 
workers  who  came  and  went,  filling  their  pan- 
niers, Katharine  recognized  a  familiar  figure. 
The  woman  came  slowly  through  the  orchard, 
out  of  the  shade  of  the  many  trees,  into  the 
clearer  opening.  She  wore  a  white  kerchief  which 
shaded  her  face,  and  whose  ends  were  tied  round 
her  throat.  The  long  sleeveless  coat  hung  round 
her  in  straight  folds.  A  large  pannier  full  of 
lemons  was  on  her  shoulder.  With  her  left  arm 
she  steadied  the  pannier  while  her  right  hung 
loosely  by  her  side.  On  the  trees  behind  her  the 
fruit  hung  in  yellow  clusters,  and  the  waving 
leaves  made  patches  of  shadow  and  light  on  her 
kerchief.  She  walked  slowly,  being  heavily  laden, 
and  sometimes  lifted  her  face  to  meet  the  breeze. 
She  was  a  large  woman  and  all  her  movements 
were  simple,  free,  almost  classic. 
,  "Myrto,  it  is  you?"  exclaimed  Katharine. 

The  woman's  face  lighted  up  as  she  brought 
down  her  pannier  and  rested  it  on  the  ground 
beside  her.  Her  lips  parted  hi  a  smile  of  glad 
welcome. 

k    "You  have  come  to  Poros  again !  That  is  well. 
Our  hearts  have  pained  for  a  sight  of  you." 

"It  is  very  sweet  of  you  to  say  so,  Myrto." 


130       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

Katharine's  Greek  was  distinctly  original,  and 
her  genders  and  tenses  wonderfully  mixed,  but 
she  talked  fluently  enough,  and  always  succeeded 
in  making  herself  understood. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "of  course  I  have  come 
again.  Did  I  not  say  I  would?  Do  you  think 
anything  would  keep  me  away  from  Poros,  once 
I  was  in  Greece?" 

"And  the  lady,  your  sister?" 

"The  lady,  my  sister,  was  with  me  in  Athens, 
but  she  found  it  became  too  hot.  She  hates  the 
blue  sky  when  it  is  always  without  clouds.  Just 
fancy  that,  Myrto!  So  she  took  her  husband 
and  the  dear  little  girl,  and  they  all  went  off  to 
Switzerland,  where  it  will  rain  as  much  as  they 
like.  You  do  not  know  where  Switzerland  is,  do 
you,  Myrto?" 

"Switzerland,"  repeated  the  woman  slowly, 
"is  it  in  Europe,  where  the  lemons  are  sent?" 

"Yes,  it  is  in  Europe,  but  then  so  are  we  here." 

"No,"  corrected  Myrto,  "the  garden  here  is 
on  the  Peloponnesus,  opposite  Poros." 

"Still  it  is  part  of  Europe." 

Myrto  looked  puzzled. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said  at  last.  "You  are 
learned,  and  know  many  things;  but  so  we  say 
here,  this  is  the  Peloponnesus,  and  Poros  is  oppo- 
site, and  the  lemons  go  in  the  ships  to  Europe." 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  131 

An  old  woman  came  shuffling  up  to  them,  with 
bent  back  and  outstretched  hand.  Katharine 
greeted  her  kindly. 

"How  are  you,  Kyra  Marina?  How  is  the  bad 
knee?  —  quite  well  again  now?  And  do  you 
always  make  such  fine  preserves  of  the  little 
green  lemons  as  you  used  to  do?  You  must  make 
some  more  for  me  to  take  back  to  my  little  niece. 
She  does  love  them  so!" 

"At  your  service  always,"  answered  the  old 
dame.  "But  we  must  wait  for  the  next  crop: 
these  are  too  large  now." 

Katharine  nodded  smilingly,  and  turned  again 
to  the  younger  woman. 

"And  Leftheri,  Myrto?  Is  he  well?  Does  he 
catch  much  fish  in  the  new  boat?" 

The  woman  did  not  reply.  She  half  turned 
aside,  fingering  the  lemons  in  the  high  pannier. 
Something  in  her  attitude  surprised  Katharine. 
This  was  not  a  shy  young  girl,  but  a  woman 
who  had  been  already  married  some  months,  the 
last  time  she  had  seen  her. 

"How  is  your  husband?"  she  repeated  curi- 
ously. 

Myrto  kept  her  face  almost  entirely  turned 
away,  but  Katharine  could  see  the  shiver  that 
ran  through  her  whole  body.  She  did  not  notice 
the  pursed-up  lips  of  the  old  woman  behind  her. 


132       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  boldly,  ascertaining 
by  a  rapid  glance  that  Myrto's  kerchief  was 
white.  "Where  is  Leftheri?" 

"Gone,"  muttered  the  woman  at  last  without 
turning  round. 

Katharine  sprang  towards  her. 

"Gone!  what  do  you  mean?  Where?  How?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you  here,"  answered  Myrto  in 
a  colorless  voice.  "If  you  come  some  day  to 
my  house  as  you  used  to  do,  I  will  tell  you,  per- 
haps." 

"Gone!"  repeated  Katharine  in  amazement, 
"gone  for  long,  do  you  mean?  But  where?" 

"No,"  broke  in  Kyra  Marina,  "gone  for  al- 
ways; gone  where  the  men  go  who  do  not  care 
for  their  lives,  who  are  driven  away  by  evil  ways 
and  bad  words;  gone  to  the  sponge  fishing." 

"To  the  sponge  fishing!"  echoed  Katharine  in 
dismay;  "with  the  sponge  divers?  Leftheri?" 
For  she  had  lived  enough  in  the  islands  to  know 
a  little  of  what  such  going  meant. 

Kyra  Marina  blinked  her  small  wicked  eyes 
set  in  a  brown  network  of  wrinkles. 

"Tell  the  lady  about  it,"  she  commanded  au-. 
thoritatively.  "Wherefore  will  you  be  dragging 
her  to  your  house?  Is  it  a  place  for  her,  and  you 
a  deserted  woman?  Do  you  think  perhaps  that 
people  care  to  come  to  you  now?" 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  133 

"No,"  said  Myrto  meekly,  "I  know;  few 
come."  Then  turning  to  Katharine,  "I  brought 
no  shame  to  my  man,  God  be  my  witness, 
but  he  would  flare  up  easily,  and  we  often  had 
hard  words.  Anger  rises  quickly  in  me  too.  I 
had  no  mother  to  teach  me  patience.  I  always 
wished  him  to  work  harder,  and  do  more  than 
the  others.  I  told  him  every  day  that  he  was 
lazy,  too  often,  perhaps.  Then  one  day  that 
dawned  badly  I  said  it  had  been  better  I  had 
married  Panayi,  the  miller's  son,  —  he  who  had 
asked  for  me.  I  said  I  should  have  fared  better. 
I  did  not  mean  it  really,  it  was  just  the  evil  mo- 
ment that  made  me  speak  the  words.  But  he  be- 
lieved them.  You  do  not  know  these  things,  but 
it  is  a  madness  that  comes  over  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Katharine  gently,  "yes;  I  know." 

"And  just  then,"  continued  Myrto,  "there 
were  those  sponge  captains  here,  the  dogs,  drink- 
ing at  Sotiro's,  tempting  the  lads,  offering  much 
money  —  and  that  night  he  went  off  with  them 
—  That  is  all."  Then  in  a  hard  voice,  "Now 
you  need  not  come  to  my  house." 

"No,  no,  of  course  she  need  not,"  piped  the 
old  crone,  shaking  her  head. 

Katharine  turned  on  her  fiercely. 

"Please  not  to  answer  for  me,  Kyra  Marina." 
Then  to  Myrto  she  said  very  simply,  "Of  course 


134       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

I  shall  come  to  see  you,  Myrto,  perhaps  to-mor- 
row." 

Others  were  gathering  round  them  by  this 
time,  so  Katharine  wished  them  good-day  and 
made  her  way  through  the  trees  and  up  the  long 
avenue  to  where  an  old  gate,  built  under  an 
archway  thickly  lined  with  swallows'  nests,  led 
out  of  the  garden. 

She  entered  a  narrow  lane  between  high  stone 
walls  green  with  overhanging  plants.  The  rough 
path  was  shaded  by  the  walnut  and  mulberry 
trees  of  the  gardens  on  each  side.  At  first  she 
walked  along  with  bent  head  and  troubled  face. 
Myrto's  story  had  saddened  her,  and  besides  this, 
other  thoughts  had  been  awakened,  which  she 
had  been  resolutely  lulling  to  sleep  for  many  days 
now. 

"It  is  a  madness  that  comes  over  you  —  it  is  a 
madness  — "  she  repeated  over  and  over  again. 

But  by  the  time  she  emerged  from  the  narrow 
walled-in  path  on  to  the  seashore  at  Galata,  she 
had  shaken  off  her  preoccupation,  and  was  walk- 
ing rapidly,  with  her  shoulders  well  set  back,  her 
face  lifted  to  the  breeze,  and  her  lips  slightly 
apart. 

Galata  had  grown  since  she  had  seen  it  last. 
Little  straw- thatched  sheds  open  on  all  sides, 
where  coffee  and  masticha  were  served,  had  been 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  135 

erected  close  to  the  sea,  and  many  new  houses 
had  been  built  on  the  slopes  among  the  olive 
trees. 

Katharine  loved  it  all,  every  step  of  the  way, 
every  sight  and  sound. 

The  boat  in  which  she  crossed  over  to  Poros, 
painted  in  vivid  blue  and  green  stripes,  with  its 
sail  of  many  patches,  charmed  her.  The  short 
crossing  of  scarcely  two  minutes  was  breezy  and 
sunny,  and  the  island,  as  she  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  to  its  amphitheatre  of  old  sun-baked 
houses  overshadowed  by  the  brown  man-faced 
rock,  gave  her  the  impression  of  a  monster  living 
cinematograph.  She  jumped  out  of  the  boat, 
searching  eagerly  for  known  faces.  The  crew  of 
urchins  that  always  haunted  the  quay  were  the 
first  old  acquaintances  she  met.  It  was  holiday 
time,  and  they  were  nearly  all  there,  —  Nasso, 
Yoryi,  Mitso,  Stavro,  Kosta,  Niko,  Aristidi, 
Andrea,  Savva,  all  in  various  degrees  of  tattered 
undress,  all  smiling  and  crowding  round  the 
quickly  recognized  "foreign  lady,"  the  well- 
remembered  distributer  of  koulouria  and  lepta 
in  the  past. 

It  was  good  to  see  it  all  again  just  as  she  had 
dreamt  of  it  so  often,  —  the  brilliant  flame-red, 
grass-green,  and  sky-blue  little  boats  rocking  on 
the  waves  outside  the  sea  wall;  the  fruit  sheds, 


136       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

with  their  panniers  of  ripe  tomatoes,  mounds  of 
yellow  melons,  and  purple  aubergines,  with  the 
enormous  over-ripe  yellowish  cucumbers  that 
only  Poriote  digestions  can  tackle  with  impunity; 
the  groups  of  old  men  sitting  cross-legged  under 
the  scanty  shade  of  the  acacia  trees,  mending 
their  fishing-nets;  the  old  fountain  standing  close 
to  the  sea,  with  its  marble  dolphins  twisting  their 
tails  round  a  trident  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
waves  splashing  on  the  other;  Pappa  Thanassi, 
the  priest,  who  passed  bowing  gravely,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  breast  as  he  did  so;  the  familiar 
greeting  of  Kyr  Apostoli,  the  baker;  Barba 
Stathi's  old  donkey,  Kitso,  waiting  patiently 
outside  the  oven  till  his  load  of  thyme  should  be 
lightened. 

At  last  she  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  little 
hotel  and  gazed  seaward  before  making  up  her 
mind  to  enter.  The  waters  of  the  bay  heaved 
and  sparkled  in  the  dazzling  light,  far  away  to 
the  great  mass  of  the  Sleeper,  whose  highest 
peaks,  seen  dimly  through  the  heat  haze,  might 
have  been  taken  for  clouds.  The  steamer  from 
Piraeus  was  just  turning  the  corner  by  the  light- 
house, and  numbers  of  little  boats  started  out 
to  meet  her. 

Katharine  ran  quickly  up  to  the  balcony  of 
her  room,  and  with  her  opera  glasses  carefully 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  137 

scanned  every  passenger  who  disembarked. 
When  the  last  one  had  been  rowed  out  to  the 
quay,  and  the  steamer  had  weighed  her  anchor 
and  was  on  her  way  to  Nauplia,  Katharine  laid 
down  her  glasses  with  a  sigh,  and  began  a  long 
letter  to  her  sister  at  Grindelwald. 

Myrto,  with  the  red  earthen  pitcher  full  of 
water  on  her  shoulder,  climbed  up  the  rocky 
street  in  the  fast-fading  light,  pushed  open  the 
door  of  her  little  low  house,  and,  closing  it  be- 
hind her,  went  into  the  dim  close  room. 

It  was  a  small  room,  and  her  loom,  with  the 
blue-and-white  threads  stretched  tightly  across 
it,  took  up  nearly  all  the  space  between  the  soli- 
tary window  and  the  open  fireplace,  —  an  old- 
fashioned  one,  this,  with  an  overhanging  white- 
washed mantel,  and  a  deep  flounce  of  faded  cotton 
stuff  nailed  underneath  it.  Over  the  loom  a 
plate  rack  ornamented  with  bright  green  paper 
cut  into  fantastic  shapes  held  five  white  plates 
and  two  cups.  Besides  the  rack  there  was  also  a 
little  painted  cupboard  let  into  the  wall  high  up 
beyond  the  fireplace,  for  the  safe  keeping  of  the 
better  crockery.  On  a  shelf  on  the  other  side 
stood  half  a  melon,  two  tomatoes,  and  a  big 
hunch  of  brown  bread.  Two  hens  and  a  cock 
were  walking  unconcernedly  over  the  loom, 


138       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

picking  up  stray  crumbs  which  had  fallen  on 
it. 

Myrto  set  down  her  pitcher  from  her  shoulder 
with  an  effort,  filled  the  smaller  drinking  one  and 
set  it  to  cool  outside  on  the  ledge  of  the  small 
courtyard  at  the  back.  Cool  water  is  a  serious 
question  in  Poros.  The  nights  were  long  and  hot; 
Myrto,  who  did  not  sleep  much,  was  often 
thirsty.  Treading  heavily  she  came  back  into 
the  room,  and  carefully  stopped  up  the  mouth  of 
the  larger  pitcher  with  a  green  lemon  which  she 
had  brought  with  her  from  the  garden. 

Suddenly  she  let  herself  drop  on  a  low  stool, 
leaning  her  head  against  the  wooden  post  of  the 
loom.  She  felt  faint  and  sick.  Her  back  ached  as 
if  it  would  break,  and  her  knees  trembled  as  she 
tried  to  stretch  her  legs  to  give  them  more  ease. 
She  had  been  down  to  the  fountain  quite  late, 
hoping  to  meet  no  one.  But  Kyra  Marina  had 
been  there.  The  other  women  had  taken  her 
turn,  she  said;  there  was  no  respect  left  for  old 
age.  Myrto  had  tried  to  keep  silence,  but  she 
had  been  soon  overwhelmed  by  a  torrent  of 
words. 

"Yes,"  the  old  woman  wound  up,  "Leftheri 
may  have  been  lazy  enough,  and  easily  roused  to 
anger,  but  you  must  have  broiled  the  fish  on  his 
very  lips,  my  girl,  to  make  him  go  off  so,  and  to 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  139 

such  work.  Do  you  know  that  the  poor  divers 
are  the  slaves  of  the  sponge  captains?  That  they 
keep  them  down  in  the  sea  till  they  burst,  if  they 
do  not  bring  up  many  sponges  the  first  time,  and 
throw  them  into  a  dark  hold  to  rot  when  their 
legs  are  seized  and  they  can  work  no  more?  Are 
they  few,  the  strong  men  who  have  returned 
crippled  for  life?  Like  enough,  if  ever  you  see 
your  man  again,  he  will  be  dragging  his  legs  after 
him,  and  then  you  may  have  him  lying  there  on  a 
mattress,  a  useless  log,  all  the  rest  of  his  days. 
And  that  will  be  bad  work  to  remember,  my 
girl.  To  have  driven  a  man  away  from  his  coun- 
try, and  his  house,  by  your  evil  tongue !  Eh,  but 
there  are  few  have  a  good  word  for  you  now.'* 

"I  know,"  sobbed  Myrto. 

Poros  gossip  would  have  it  that  Kyra  Ma- 
rina's own  daughter  and  son-in-law  had  been 
driven  to  seek  work  out  of  the  island,  to  escape 
her  railing  tongue.  It  is  true  this  was  long  ago, 
and  with  age  her  memory  may  have  been  failing 
her. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  continued,  "that  you  are 
with  child.  It  is  bad  enough  to  be  born. a  wid- 
ow's child,  but  worse  still  to  have  a  deserted  wife 
for  mother." 

She  would  probably  have  gone  on  for  some 
time  in  this  encouraging  strain  had  not  her  vie- 


140       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

tim  at  last  seized  her  pitcher,  only  three  quarters 
full,  and  started  homewards,  leaving  the  old  wo- 
man muttering  behind  her. 

But  now  as  she  sat  there,  weary  and  sick  in 
mind  and  body,  every  cruel  word  came  back  to 
her  with  renewed  force.  Her  poor  man  a  slave  to 
those  brutes!  Left  to  rot  in  the  dark  hold  of  a 
rolling  ship  or  sent  off  with  both  legs  paralyzed, — 
he  who  was  so  proud  of  his  strength  and  agility; 
he,  the  best  dancer  in  the  Syrto  dance  at  the 
Vithi  fair! 

Myrto  clasped  her  hands  together  as  she  half 
sat,  half  crouched  there  in  the  gloom,  and  broken 
words  of  prayer  escaped  her. 

"My  little  Virgin,  have  mercy  upon  me!  Pity 
me,  my  little  Virgin !  Stretch  out  your  hand  and 
save  my  poor  man.  I  have  been  bad,  yes,  —  but 
save  him  and  bring  him  back  hale  and  sound  for 
the  sake  of  the  child  that  lies  heavy  within  me." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  clasped  her  hands  over 
her  burning  eyes. 

Would  the  Holy  Virgin  listen  to  her?  What 
had  she  done  to  be  heard?  Little  by  little  the 
vague  notion  of  some  necessary  sacrifice  took 
form  in  her  tired  brain.  She  could  scarcely  drag 
her  limbs  to  the  fountain  this  evening  after  her 
hard  day's  work  in  the  garden,  and  on  the  mor- 
row she  had  meant  to  sit  at  her  loom  all  day  for  a 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  141 

rest.  But  she  decided  that  instead  of  this  she 
would  go  on  foot  to  the  Monastery,  and  repeat 
her  petition  to  the  Virgin  up  there  in  the  chapel, 
lighting  a  candle  before  the  icon  which  the  Ital- 
ian painter  had  painted. 

But  even  then  —  what?  Was  there  any  hope? 
Would  her  prayers,  her  candle,  her  pilgrimage 
help  her  man  ever  so  little?  They  let  them  rot  in 
the  hold,  Kyra  Marina  had  said.  Rot!  That 
meant  what?  Ah,  yes,  she  knew! 

Had  not  the  sailors  of  the  little  transport  ship, 
which  had  been  sent  out  by  the  Government  to 
overlook  the  sponge  diving,  told  their  women 
and  their  women  repeated  it  at  the  fountain? 
Had  she  not  heard  the  gruesome  tale  of  the  poor 
young  man  from  Smyrna,  rescued  by  the  officers 
of  the  transport  ship  from  the  clutches  of  one  of 
those  sponge  captains,  only  to  die  of  advanced 
gangrene  three  days  later?  Had  not  the  sailors 
spoken  of  the  festering  wounds  caused  by  long 
neglect;  by  days  and  nights  spent  untended  on  a 
loathsome  mattress  in  a  filthy,  noisome  hold? 
Had  not  these  wounds  been  described  in  all  their 
sickening  details  by  those  who  had  seen  them 
with  their  own  eyes  —  aye,  and  not  only  seen 
them! 

Myrto  dropped  her  head  on  her  breast  and 
swayed  backwards  and  forwards  with  clenched 


142       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

teeth,  as  the  picture  arose  before  her.  A  lull 
came,  and  she  heard  steps  approaching;  then  a 
tapping  at  the  closed  door.  She  knew  at  once 
that  it  must  be  Katharine.  No  one  else  in  Poros 
had  that  light,  springy  step.  The  old  people 
shuffled,  the  young  ones,  being  generally  laden, 
or  tired,  trod  heavily,  and  the  little  children  pat- 
tered. Besides,  no  one  but  the  "foreign  lady" 
would  have  dreamt  of  knocking  at  the  door. 

She  opened  it  at  once  and  Katharine  entered ; 
a  trim  figure  in  white  linen,  holding  a  bunch  of 
pink  oleanders  in  one  hand,  and  a  tall  shepherd's 
stick  in  the  other. 

"I  have  been  up  to  the  Temple  of  Poseidon," 
she  announced,  "right  up  to  the  top  with  Barba 
Stathi;  though  I  never  once  got  on  to  Kitso's 
back.  It  was  hot,  but  I  did  it,  and  now  I  am 
tired  and  thirsty.  So  I  thought  I  would  rest  for 
a  little  here,  and  have  a  talk  with  you  at  the 
same  time." 

"Welcome,"  said  Myrto  simply.  "Will  you 
sit  here?"  spreading  a  clean  cloth  on  the  second 
stool.  "Or  will  you  come  into  the  sala?  —  there 
is  a  sofa  there." 

"Oh,  here;  certainly."  Then  catching  sight  of 
the  woman's  face,  of  the  eyes  that  had  no  light  in 
them,  of  the  waxen  color  which  made  the  strong, 
arched  eyebrows  look  too  black,  —  "You  poor 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  143 

thing!"  she  exclaimed,  "what  have  they  been 
doing  to  you?  Sit  right  here  beside  me,  and  tell 
me  all  about  it." 

But  Myrto  would  not  hear  of  it.1 

Katharine  had  said  she  was  thirsty.  She  must 
drink  first;  drink  out  of  one  of  the  glasses  kept 
in  the  little  wall-cupboard,  a  thin  glass  with  a 
gold  rim,  and  a  gold  fox  engraved  on  one  side. 
Myrto  wiped  it  very  carefully  and  filled  it  from 
the  drinking-pitcher  outside,  explaining  to  Kath- 
arine as  she  came  and  went  that  she  need  have 
no  scruples  about  drinking  of  the  water,  for  she 
herself  never  drank  from  the  mouth  of  the 
pitcher,  as  some  of  the  villagers  did,  but  always 
used  a  cup  or  a  tin  dipper. 

Then  she  placed  the  filled  glass  on  a  little 
round  tray,  and  beside  it  a  small  pot  of  small 
lemons  preserved,  which  Kyra  Sophoula,  a  kind 
neighbor,  she  said,  had  given  her,  and  one  of  the 
six  silver  spoons  which  had  formed  part  of  her 
dowry.  This  tray  she  presented  to  Katharine, 
standing  before  her  while  Katharine  served  her- 
self. Only  when  the  duties  of  hospitality  were  over 
could  Katharine  persuade  her  to  sit  down  again. 

"What  were  you  doing  when  I  came  in?  You 
must  not  let  me  stop  your  work,"  she  said. 

"I  was  doing  nothing.  I  often  sit  idle  now, 
with  my  hands  crossed." 


144       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"Ah,  but  that  is  bad!"  exclaimed  Katharine, 
with  swift  Anglo-Saxon  energy;  "there  is  no- 
thing like  work  to  make  you  forget  troubles." 

Myrto  shook  her  head.  "There  is  always  work 
enough,"  she  said  in  a  tired  voice,  "if  one  would 
not  starve.  Besides,  as  you  see,  there  is  the 
child  that  will  come  soon,  and  I  am  often  heavy 
and  tired." 

Katharine  knew  Poros  ways  and  talk.  "May 
it  be  safely  born,  and  live  long  to  be  a  joy  to  you," 
she  said  in  a  grave,  compassionate  voice. 

"Tell  me  at  least,"  she  added  after  Myrto  had 
thanked  her,  "what  you  were  thinking  of,  since 
you  were  not  doing  anything." 

"I  was  thinking  that  to-morrow  I  shall  go  to 
the  Monastery." 

"To  the  Monastery?  You?" 

"  Yes,  on  foot;  to  light  a  candle  before  the  icon 
of  the  Holy  Virgin.  Ah,  yes,  I  know  what  you 
would  say  —  you  are  foreign;  you  speak  our  lan- 
guage, but  you  do  not  know  our  faith,  and  you 
will  say  that  it  will  do  no  good;  that  I  cannot 
walk  so  far.  But  I  can,  and  I  will,  and  it  must  do 
good." 

"Why  should  it  not  do  good?"  said  Katharine 
quietly.  "And  if  it  makes  you  any  happier,  of 
course  you  must  go.  Only  you  must  rest  when 
you  get  there." 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  145 

"Yes,  I  will  rest." 

"How  long  ago  is  it  that  Leftheri  went?" 

"Very  soon  it  will  be  eight  months." 

"Then,"  asked  Katharine  hesitatingly,  "had 
you  —  I  mean,  did  he  know?" 

"No,"  said  Myrto,  "he  did  not  know  any- 
thing." 

"Poor  Myrto!  If  he  had  known  he  would 
never  have  left  you." 

"I  do  not  know —  perhaps  not.  He  wished  for 
a  child.  But  perhaps  also  he  bore  all  he  could. 
What  can  a  man  do  when  a  woman  is  always 
angry,  and  has  evil  words  ready  when  he  returns 
from  his  work?  Ah,  Kyra  Marina  was  right,  you 
should  not  come  to  my  house !  I  am  a  bad  wo- 
man !  Not  in  deeds  —  no  —  that  I  swear  on  my 
marriage  wreath  —  but  in  words  —  Ah,  God, 
did  I  not  tell  him  it  were  better  I  had  married 
another  man.  I,  his  wife!  There  are  some  words 
no  man  can  forgive;  words  that  the  longest  life  is 
too  short  to  forget  in." 

Katharine  started  a  little,  and  leaning  forward 
looked  into  Myrto's  face. 

"Do  you  think  so,  Myrto?  Are  there  any  un- 
forgivable words?  Then  more  than  ever  should 
I  come  to  your  house  and  sit  with  you,  and  listen 
to  you  —  for  I  too  have  spoken  such." 

"You!  to  whom?  You  are  not  married?" 


146       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"No  —  but  there  is  some  one  —  I  am  —  I 
was  engaged  to.  You  understand?" 

"I  understand — you  were  betrothed.  Your 
parents  had  exchanged  your  rings,  though  the 
priest  had  not  yet  exchanged  your  wreaths." 

"Well,  not  quite,"  said  Katharine,  "but  it 
comes  to  the  same  thing." 

"Was  he  foreign  also?  was  it  in  your  own 
country?" 

"He  is  not  Greek,  but  not  of  my  own  coun- 
try, either;  he  is  an  Englishman.  Never  mind,  I 
cannot  explain.  Anyway,  a  foreigner  here  like 
myself.  And  it  was  not  in  my  own  country  we 
met,  but  in  Athens.  We  stayed  many  months 
there,  and  traveled  together  with  some  other 
people.  And  when  we  found  out,  Myrto,  that  we 
loved  each  other  very  much,  we  were  betrothed 
as  you  call  it,  though  there  was  no  ceremony,  we 
just  knew  it  ourselves." 

Myrto  looked  puzzled.  "But  the  lady,  your 
sister?  " 

"Oh,  my  sister  knew,  of  course;  her  husband 
also.  And  —  and  —  we  were  to  have  been  mar- 
ried now,  this  Easter." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Why,  then,  did  not  the  marriage  take  place?  " 
asked  Myrto;  "was  not  your  dowry  ready?" 

"Oh,  quite  ready;  yes." . 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  147 

"Then  why?" 

"Well,  you  see,  we  loved  each  other  very,  very 
much,  but  still  we  often  disagreed,  and  like  you, 
I  too  get  angry  easily;  I  have  always  been  free, 
and  sometimes  I  hated  the  thought  of  feeling 
bound,  of  being  asked  where  I  went  and  what  I 
did." 

"But  since  he  was  your  betrothed?"  said 
Myrto  gravely. 

"I  know;  but  it  was  only  at  times  I  hated  it. 
Sometimes  I  liked  it.  Then  you  know  I  am  — 
well,  rather  rich.  My  father  left  me  what  you 
would  call  here  a  big  dowry  —  and  he  —  Jim  — 
has  very  little  money,  and  one  day  when  he  had 
vexed  me  about  something  —  I  —  as  you  say,  it 
is  a  madness  that  comes  over  you  —  I  told  him 
that  he  did  not  care  for  me  so  much  as  I  had 
thought,  and  that  perhaps  if  I  were  not  so  rich 
he  would  not  wish  to  marry  me.  Yes,  I  told  him 
that,  beast  that  I  was ! " 

And,  like  Myrto  a  little  while  ago,  Katharine 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  rocked 
backwards  and  forwards. 

"But  —  Ah,  please  do  not  say  such  words  — 
you!  a  beast!  But  perhaps  what  you  told  him 
was  true." 

"How  dare  you,  Myrto?  What  do  you 
mean?" 


148       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"I  ask  your  forgiveness  —  I  only  mean  that, 
though  he  must  have  been  glad  that  you  were 
beautiful  and  good,  of  course  he  must  have  been 
very  glad  also  that  you  were  rich;  such  a  'good 
bride/" 

"Ah,  you  do  not  understand.  How  should 
you?  But  I  must  say  it  all  —  I  must,  I  must! " 

She  rose  suddenly,  laid  her  arms  down  on  the 
narrow  chimney-shelf,  and  buried  her  face  on 
them.  "He  was  a  man,  you  see,  who  was  very 
proud;  who  did  not  care  anything  at  all  for  the 
riches,  and  if  another  man  had  said  this  to  him 
he  would  have  knocked  him  down.  But  I  was  a 
woman,  so  he  —  he  just  went  away  and  left  me. 
And  at  first  I  thought  I  did  not  care  much  — 
but  now  — ' 

"Ah,  yes;  I  know;  I  understand.  At  first  one 
is  angry  and  glad,  —  not  a  good  gladness,  —  but 
afterwards  you  do  not  wish  to  see  the  sun  shine 
by  day,  and  at  night  you  cannot  sleep."  Then 
after  a  pause,  "He  went  far  away?" 

"Not  very  far,  but  he  was  away  a  long  time." 

"He  has  returned?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  if  you  suffered  still,  why  did  you  not 
ask  his  forgiveness?" 

"  You  did  not,  Myrto." 

"I?    It  is  different.    We  are  poor  people,  I 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  149 

cannot  write,  and  if  I  could,  do  I  know  where  he 
is,  if  I  could  ever  find  him?  But  you,  a  lady,  it  is 
another  thing.  You  are  learned,  and  can  write 
and  say  much.  Why  did  you  not  send  him  a 
letter?" 

"I  did,  Myrto.  But  he  never  answered." 

"Then  you  must  send  another.  Perhaps  it 
was  not  given  to  him,  or  perhaps  even  his  anger 
is  slow  to  pass.  You  must  write  once  more." 

Katharine  lifted  her  head  from  her  arms  and 
looked  at  Myrto. 

"I  think  I  will,"  she  said  slowly. 

Though  the  afternoon  was  well  advanced,  the 
heat  was  still  great  when  Myrto  the  next  day 
toiled  up  behind  the  white-walled  cemetery  on 
her  way  to  the  Monastery.  The  first  part  of  the 
road  is  arid,  and  treeless,  without  a  particle  of 
shade.  Myrto  had  laden  herself  with  a  small 
earthen  pitcher  to  fetch  back  water  from  the 
Monastery  spring,  which  is  famed,  even  beyond 
Poros,  for  its  sweetness  and  purity. 

The  flocks  of  brown  and  black  goats  browsing 
on  the  slopes,  to  her  left,  were  scarcely  distin- 
guishable among  the  huge  gray  rocks.  Only  the 
tinkle  of  their  bells  revealed  their  presence. 
Myrto  dragged  her  feet  wearily  and  changed  her 
pitcher  from  one  arm  to  another.  She  rested  it 


150       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

for  a  few  moments  on  the  top  of  the  low  wall 
which  is  built  on  the  right  of  the  road,  where  the 
cliffs  are  steepest,  and  then,  with  a  spurt  of 
courage,  walked  on,  crossed  the  stone  bridge, 
and  almost  ran  down  to  the  wide  stretch  of  beach 
where  the  big  fig  trees  grow.  There,  under  their 
shade,  she  rested  a  while. 

The  old  woman  who  was  guarding  the  ripe  figs 
spoke  to  her:  — 

"Where  may  you  be  for?" 

"For  the  Monastery:  to  light  a  candle." 

The  old  woman  glanced  at  her.  "That  is  far. 
You  should  go  to  St.  Eleftherios.  That  is  the 
church  for  those  who  are  as  you  are." 

"  No,"  said  Myrto  simply,  "it  is  not  for  that  I 
am  going.  My  man  —  is  away  —  I  want  to 
light  a  candle  for  his  safe  return."  She  rose  as 
she  spoke. 

"May  it  be  for  your  help,"  cried  the  woman 
after  her.  "There  is  shade  the  rest  of  the  way." 

Myrto  passed  the  walled-in  lemon  gardens, 
the  tiny  white  chapel  among  the  rocks  close  to 
the  sea,  and  then  the  pines  began.  She  was  rested 
now,  and  a  little  breeze  cooled  her  face  as  she 
walked. 

Nature  as  a  rule  appeals  little  to  those  who 
live  in  the  heart  of  her  loveliest  spots,  but  in  a 
vague  way  Myrto  felt  the  beauty  of  the  road 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  151 

and  the  hour.  The  warm  Sienna-red  of  the  steep 
path  wound  up  through  the  luminous  green  of 
the  young  pines.  Very  far  below,  on  the  right, 
the  sea  lapped  lazily  against  the  wooded  crags, 
and  the  mountains  of  the  mainland  opposite 
stood  out  in  one  uniform  tint  of  deep  blue, 
against  the  paler  blue  of  the  sky.  Nothing  broke 
the  silence  but  the  low  note  of  the  crickets  along 
the  wayside,  and  the  far  distant  striking  of  the 
water  by  a  many-oared  trata,  making  for  one  of 
the  little  inlets  below. 

Long  before  she  reached  the  Monastery,  she 
could  see  it  in  the  distance,  —  a  long,  low,  white 
building,  built  round  a  square,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  old  Moorish  palaces,  half  buried  in  the 
masses  of  surrounding  trees. 

The  path  wound  in  and  out,  now  rising,  now 
falling.  It  rose  to  the  top  of  the  cliff,  where  the 
bright  red  earth  crumbled  between  the  gray 
rocks  on  the  left,  the  open  sea  spread  out  in  all 
its  glorious  expanse  at  the  foot  of  the  sheer  fall  of 
wooded  crags  on  the  right,  and  the  Monastery 
gleamed  white  before  her.  Then  again  the  path 
would  dip  suddenly,  closing  her  in  among  the 
great  pines,  with  nothing  but  their  waving 
branches  over  her  head,  and  their  soft  needles 
beneath  her  feet.  Further  on  multitudes  of 
young  pines  grew  right  down  the  hill  to  the 


152       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

water's  edge.  Seen  from  the  height,  they  stood 
out  in  bright  golden  green  against  the  dazzling 
blue  of  the  sea.  On  canvas  the  colors  would  have 
seemed  too  crude,  too  shadowless,  too  glaring, 
but  enveloped  in  that  warm,  quivering  sunlight, 
they  were  a  perfect  harmony.  Three  or  four 
times  the  winding  of  the  path  made  Myrto 
entirely  lose  sight  of  the  Monastery,  before  she 
reached  the  spring  under  the  giant  plane  tree, 
overhanging  the  ravine. 

There  were  some  rough  wooden  benches  under 
the  shade  of  the  tree.  Letting  her  empty  pitcher 
slip  to  the  ground,  she  sank  down  inertly  on  one 
of  these.  Her  aching  back  leaning  against  the 
trunk  of  the  tree,  her  arms  hanging  down  on 
either  side  of  her  body,  her  legs  stretched  out 
limply  before  her,  her  head  drooping  on  her 
breast,  and  her  eyes  closed,  she  remained  there, 
not  asleep,  but  with  all  thought  and  sensation 
wiped  out,  save  the  one  of  rest  after  toil. 

It  was  much  later,  almost  dusk,  when  the 
thought  began  to  shape  itself  in  her  tired  brain 
that  she  was  at  the  Monastery,  and  her  task 
not  yet  accomplished.  She  dragged  herself 
wearily  off  the  bench.  A  separate  pulse  seemed 
throbbing  in  each  limb,  and  as  she  stooped  over 
the  spring  to  fill  her  pitcher,  she  felt  a  numb 
pain  in  her  back  which  made  her  think  she  could 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  153 

not  stand  upright  again.  However,  it  passed  in  a 
moment,  and  she  rose  and  placed  her  full  pitcher 
in  the  shade  with  a  sprig  of  myrtle  to  stop  up  the 
mouth. 

Then  she  slowly  skirted  the  ravine,  painfully 
climbing  up  the  broad  low  steps  cut  into  the 
rock,  leading  up  to  the  natural  terrace  on  which 
stands  the  Monastery  of  the  "Life-giving 
Spring." 

Through  the  covered  gateway  she  went  into 
the  inner  court,  planted  with  orange  trees.  Rows 
of  arches  support  the  white  cells  above.  Two 
or  three  monks  standing  on  the  wooden  gallery 
which  gives  access  to  the  cells  looked  down  curi- 
ously at  her  as  she  passed  under  the  trellis  with 
its  overhanging  bunches  of  grapes,  and  stopped 
to  lean  for  a  moment  against  the  tall  palm  out- 
side the  chapel  door.  One  of  them  called  out 
to  her  that  they  were  just  going  to  close  the 
chapel  for  the  night,  but  she  passed  straight  in, 
seeming  not  to  have  heard  him. 

The  double-headed  Byzantine  eagle  on  the 
centre  flag  of  the  floor,  the  magnificently  carved 
templon  before  her,  were  nothing  to  Myrto,  nor 
the  graves  of  bygone  heroes  of  the  War  of 
Independence,  whose  epitaphs  she  could  not 
read. 

She  took  two  candles  off  the  brass  tray  at  the 


154       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

entrance,  laying  down  her  copper  coins  in  ex- 
change. She  lighted  the  first  before  the  icon  of 
the  venerable,  white-bearded  St.  Nicholas,  who 
helps  all  those  at  sea;  the  second  and  larger  one 
she  stuck  carefully,  after  lighting  it,  on  a  small 
iron  spike  in  the  circle  of  little  candles  placed 
round  the  tall  wax  candle  in  its  monumental 
candlestick,  before  the  Virgin's  icon. 

This  was  quite  a  modern  picture,  —  the  work 
of  an  Italian  painter,  whose  daughter  had  died 
about  fifty  years  ago  in  the  guest  house  of  the 
Monastery.  It  had  been  painted  in  gratitude  for 
the  care  and  attention  she  had  received  at  the 
hands  of  the  monks,  the  Virgin's  face,  it  is  said, 
being  that  of  the  lost  daughter.  Certainly  it 
is  a  sweet,  gentle  face,  not  like  the  dark,  stern- 
looking  Madonnas  of  most  of  the  Byzantine 
icons. 

Myrto  stood  with  bent  head  before  it,  crossing 
herself  devoutly.  She  felt  strangely  weak  and 
dizzy,  and  words  seemed  to  have  lost  their 
meaning.  No  form  of  prayer,  no  connected 
words  even,  rose  to  her  lips. 

"My  little  Virgin  —  my  little  Virgin,  —  oh, 
my  little  Virgin!"  she  repeated  over  and  over 
again.  Then  she  bent  forward  and  kissed  the 
painted  hand,  the  smooth,  white,  long-fingered 
hand,  that  made  her  think  of  Katharine's. 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  155 

An  old  man,  gray-bearded,  in  a  rough  frieze 
coat,  came  up  to  her  out  of  the  gloom. 

"Are  you  staying  long?"  he  asked;  "it  will 
soon  be  dark." 

"Nay,  I  shall  go  now.  I  only  came  up  to  light 
a  candle.  This  is  it.  Please  leave  it  there,  till  it 
burns  itself  out.  It  is  for  my  man.  He  is  —  away 
at  sea." 

"Be  easy,"  he  answered;  "no  one  ever  touches 
the  candles." 

They  passed  out  of  the  chapel  on  to  the  ter- 
race. Over  the  wooded  hill  and  the  sea  below  the 
light  was  fading  fast. 

"You  came  alone?" 

"Yes;  who  should  come  with  me?" 

"You  are  from  Poros?" 

"Yes,  from  Poros." 

"The  way  is  long  for  you." 

"I  shall  hold  out,"  she  said.  "Good-night  to 

you." 

"Good-night,"  he  answered.  "God  be  with 
you." 

Myrto  never  clearly  remembered  afterwards 
the  details  of  that  walk  home  in  the  fast-falling 
darkness. 

At  first,  forgetting  her  pitcher  at  the  spring, 
she  plunged  straight  down  into  the  ravine,  into  a 
tangle  of  lentisk  and  osier  bushes.  But  as  she  had 


156       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

an  impression  afterwards  of  pieces  of  broken,  red 
earthenware  on  the  ground,  and  of  water  about 
her  feet,  she  must  at  some  time  have  returned  for 
the  pitcher.  She  had  vague  memories  of  trees 
looming  unnaturally  tall  before  her,  of  rocks 
which  seemed  to  rise  under  her  feet,  of  a  road 
that  seemed  as  endless  as  a  dream  road,  of  dark- 
ness and  heat,  and  pain,  and  deadly  fear.  At  last 
she  had  laid  herself  down,  she  thought  to  die,  on 
the  broad  ledge  of  the  well,  where  the  flocks  are 
watered  outside  the  village.  Here  there  must 
have  been  a  period  of  complete  unconsciousness. 
She  awoke  to  find  Barba  Stathi's  kind  old  face 
bending  over  her.  She  remembered  being  lifted 
on  to  Kitso's  back,  and  then  awaking  again 
on  her  own  mattress.  Then  she  sent  the  old 
man  to  fetch  her  neighbor,  Kyra  Sophoula,  to 
her. 

1  The  small,  brown-faced  old  woman  came  at 
once.  She  grunted  angrily,  though,  when  she 
heard  of  the  expedition. 

;  "One  dram  of  good  sense  while  you  had  your 
man  with  you,  my  daughter,  would  have 
availed  you  more  than  walking  barefooted  from 
here  to  the  Annunciation  in  Tenos,  if  you  could 
do  it."  Then,  with  a  sort  of  rough  pity  for  the 
hidden  face  and  writhing  body:  "I  do  not  say  the 
Holy  Virgin  and  St.  Nicholas  will  not  listen  to 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  157 

you,  but  I  am  old  and  have  seen  much.    The 
saints  will  not  help  a  fool  too  often." 

Myrto  had  sent  for  the  old  woman  in  all  confi- 
dence, for  Kyra  Sophoula  was  that  best  of  all 
things  in  man  or  woman,  in  gentle  or  simple:  she 
was  absolutely  and  entirely  dependable.  One 
knew  that  she  would  never  fail  in  any  emergency, 
great  or  small,  from  a  cut  finger  to  sudden  death. 

She  was  sharp-tongued.  No  doubt  about 
that :  many  knew  it  to  their  cost,  more  especially 
as  she  had  the  mysterious  gift  of  proving  sud- 
denly well  aware  of  secret  weaknesses  which 
the  owners  fondly  imagined  safely  hidden.  She 
would  call  any  one  a  fool  with  the  greatest 
equanimity,  if  she  thought  the  epithet  deserved, 
but  she  would  help  that  same  fool  afterwards,  or 
even  before,  if  the  matter  pressed. 

In  the  present  case  the  necessity  was  urgent, 
and  Kyra  Sophoula  talked  no  more,  but  did  all 
that  could  be  done  to  help  nature;  for  in  Poros  a 
doctor  is  called  only  if  the  case  is  very  desperate. 
Happily  Myrto's  strong  constitution  and  simple 
life  helped  her  in  her  trial,  even  perhaps  this  last 
mad  expedition  had  been  of  some  use,  for  though 
she  suffered  much,  the  big  clock  of  the  Naval 
School  had  not  struck  midnight  before  her  little 
son  was  born  to  her. 

There  was  no  circle  of  sympathizing  neigh- 


158       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

bors  to  admire  him,  no  proud  father  to  receive 
him,  no  gun-shots  were  let  off  for  joy  at  his  birth; 
but  Kyra  Sophoula  duly  rubbed  the  tiny  limbs 
with  sugar,  that  sweetness  might  follow  him  all 
his  life,  and  did  not  neglect  to  fasten  a  piece  of 
cotton  wool  inside  the  little  cap,  that  he  might 
live  to  be  white-haired.  Then  she  laid  him  down 
beside  his  mother  and  watched  them  while  they 
slept. 

About  five  days  later,  when  the  passengers 
from  the  Piraeus  steamer  stepped  out  of  Louka's 
rowing-boats,  upon  the  quay,  there  was  a 
stranger  among  them,  who  stood  looking  curi- 
ously about  him.  Not  only  a  stranger,  but  cer- 
tainly a  foreigner  as  well.  He  was  a  square- 
shouldered  young  man  of  middle  height,  with  a 
fair,  sunburnt  skin,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  gray  flan- 
nels, of  unmistakable  English  cut,  and  closely 
followed  by  a  plump  little  fox-terrier  whose 
black  patches  on  each  side  of  his  head  were  sepa- 
rated by  a  broad  white  parting. 

His  master  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and 
looked  out  across  the  bay.  He  had  traveled 
much  in  Greece,  but  had  never  before  been  to 
Poros. 

What  he  saw  was  a  blazing  sun  in  a  deep  blue 
sky,  a  stretch  of  glittering  water,  the  wooded 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  159 

hills,  golden  green  with  pines,  on  his  right,  and 

gray  green  with  olives,  on  his  left;  and  far  away, 

masking  the  entrance  by  which  the  steamer  had 

just  come  into  the  bay,  the  blue  mass  of  the 

Sleeper. 

,    "Pretty  decent,  Pat,  is  n't  it?" 

Pat  looked  up,  cocked  his  ears,  then,  running 
across  the  quay,  began  vigorously  sniffing  at  a 
row  of  empty  jars  set  out  for  sale. 

"Thirsty,  eh?  Well,  wait  a  minute,  old  fellow." 

He  beckoned  to  a  man  who  was  setting  out 
little  tables  under  the  awning  round  the  old  col- 
umn for  the  midday  meal. 

"Oriste,"  came  the  quick  reply;  "at  your 
service." 

As  the  newcomer  was  a  stranger  of  whom  it 
was  considered  wise  to  take  immediate  posses- 
sion, before  the  people  at  the  rival  inn  could  even 
discover  his  arrival,  in  a  moment  the  master  of 
the  hotel  himself  was  beside  him,  listening  with 
admirable  gravity  to  his  halting  Greek. 

A  room?  Certainly!  one  of  the  best,  with  a 
balcony  to  it.  Clean?  Oh,  that  did  not  need  a 
question.  He  had  been  to  Athens  and  knew  what 
gentlemen  and  ladies  required.  Water  for  the 
little  dog?  "Oriste,"  at  once.  Yanni!  Kosta! 
quickly  a  pan  of  water  for  the  gentleman's  little 
dog! 


160       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

And  as  Pat  proceeded  to  slake  his  thirst,  the 
hotel-keeper  eyed  him  approvingly. 

A  fine  little  dog,  truly;  there  was  one  like  him 
at  the  red  house  on  the  hill,  but  thinner.  What 
did  the  gentleman  say  his  name  was?  —  stoop- 
ing over  him  as  he  asked.  "Paat?  oh,  yes,  Paat, 
Paat,  good  dog!" 

Pat,  who  was  admirably  brought  up,  made  a 
polite  little  movement  with  his  tail  and  went  on 
drinking. 

But  the  gentleman  was  asking  another  ques- 
tion; Kyr  Panayoti  straightened  himself  up  to 
answer. 

A  young  lady?  A  stranger?  Was  she  at  his 
hotel?  But  certainly,  certainly.  She  could  not 
possibly  have  gone  to  the  other  little  inn.  Hon- 
est people:  oh,  yes,  he  did  not  wish  to  say  the 
contrary,  but  not  a  fit  place  for  a  lady!  What? 
was  she  in  the  hotel  just  then?  Well,  he  sup- 
posed so.  At  this  hour!  Where  else  would  she  be 
in  the  sun  blaze? 

At  this  moment  the  man  at  his  elbow  ex- 
plained volubly. 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  Kyr  Panayoti  con- 
tinued, "I  see  I  was  mistaken.  The  servant  says 
she  left  early  this  morning;  an  old  man  and  his 
beast  went  also;  and  they  took  a  basket.  She 
said,  it  seems,  that  she  would  return  late.  I  did 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  161 

not  see  the  direction  —  no.  Kosta,  did  you  not 
notice  which  road  the  lady  took  with  Barba 
Stathi,  you  stupid  one?  No,  unfortunately 
the  servant  also  does  not  know.  It  is  a  pity, 
but—" 

Jim  Larcher  interrupted  the  flow  of  words. 
"Very  well.  I  will  wait  here.  Can  I  have  some- 
thing to  eat?" 

"But  certainly,  Oriste,  at  once,  the  pilaf  will 
be  ready  now  in  two  minutes  and  the  red  mullets 
are  of  this  morning's  fishing." 

The  young  man  crossed  over  to  the  shade  and 
sat  down. 

Pat  started  on  a  little  voyage  of  investiga- 
tion on  his  own  account;  sniffed  round  the 
fishing-nets  and  the  fruit  sheds,  refused  with  dis- 
dain the  invitation  to  fight  of  a  little  yellow 
dog,  begged  shamelessly  from  an  old  man  who 
was  eating  bread  with  white  touloumi  cheese; 
chased  two  pigeons  for  a  little  way;  jumped, 
with  remarkable  agility,  considering  his  bulk, 
over  a  pannier  placed  in  his  way  by  one  of 
the  boat  boys;  and  at  last  returned  to  his  mas- 
ter. After  lolling  out  a  pink  tongue  and  panting 
violently  for  a  few  seconds,  he  sat  up  and 
begged. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man?  Feel  the  heat, 
eh,  and  want  me  to  stop  it?  Well,  I've  already 


162       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

explained  that  that  is  n't  so  easy  as  you  think. 
Sure  to  feel  the  heat,  you  know,  with  all  that 
superfluous  flesh  of  yours ! " 

For  Pat  was  undoubtedly  very  stout.  Disre- 
spectful people  had  even  been  known  to  compare 
him  to  a  little  prize  pig.  Jim  Larcher,  of  the  Bri- 
tish Legation  at  Athens,  his  master  and  adorer, 
was  quite  weary  of  hearing  rude  remarks  such  as 
"Beastly  fat,  that  dog  of  yours,"  or  even  polite 
ones  such  as,  "But  don't  you  think  the  dear  fel- 
low is  just  a  little  too  stout?  "  and  explaining  time 
after  time  that  it  was  the  animal's  build  and  not 
the  consequence  of  overfeeding.  So  that  he  had 
ended  by  invariably  answering,  "Oh,  I  like  him 
that  way:  feed  him  up  on  purpose,  don't  you 
know,"  which  effectually  put  a  stop  to  further 
remarks  on  the  subject. 

While  waiting  to  be  served,  Jim  pulled  a  letter 
out  of  his  pocket,  and  began  reading  it.  Though 
not  a  very  lengthy  one,  it  had  occupied  most  of 
his  time  during  the  three  hours'  journey  from 
Piraeus;  but  he  read  every  word  of  the  four  pages 
twice  over  again,  and  returned  a  third  time  to 
the  postscript. 

"Please,  Jim  dear,"  he  read,  "don't  think,  for 
a  single  instant,  that  I  shall  be  too  proud  to  ask 
for  your  forgiveness  if  you  come  to  me,  or  that  I 
have  written  all  this  to  avoid  the  awkwardness  of 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  163 

speaking  it.  Why,  I  shall  just  love  to  do  it  — 
after  dreaming  of  it  so  often." 

A  curious  little  thrill  ran  through  him  as  he 
read  these  words,  for  perhaps  the  twentieth 
time;  a  little  rush  of  blood  which  set  his  heart 
beating  faster,  and  made  his  extremities  tingle; 
something  which  made  him  think  vaguely  of  a 
flash  of  very  jagged  lightning  through  a  dark 
sky,  though  he  could  certainly  not  have  explained 
the  reason  of  this  impression. 

The  man  came  up  with  the  dishes,  and  Jim 
thrust  the  letter  back  into  his  pocket. 

After  his  coffee,  he  went  up  to  his  room  and 
attempted  a  siesta,  after  the  fashion  of  the  coun- 
try. But  it  was  maddening  to  lie  open-eyed  on 
his  bed,  listening  to  Pat's  contented  snores.  So 
he  awoke  the  dog  ruthlessly,  and  set  off  for  a 
walk  to  kill  the  remaining  hours  of  waiting. 

"Come  along,  Pat,  you  lazy  brute;  it  will  be 
better  outside  anyway." 

Pat,  having  been  most  comfortably  settled, 
felt  doubtful,  but  he  followed  dutifully  out  on  to 
the  now  deserted  quay. 

Katharine  had  spent  most  of  the  preceding 
day  in  Myrto's  little  house,  comforting  and  en- 
couraging her,  cooking  beef  tea  for  her  on  her 
own  little  spirit-lamp,  tending  the  baby,  trying 


164       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

hard  to  persuade  Kyra  Sophoula  to  dress  it 
American  fashion  and  release  its  little  arms  from 
the  swaddling  clothes,  promising  that  she  and 
none  other  should  be  its  godmother. 

"What  shall  we  name  him,  Myrto?" 

"Whatever  your  nobility  pleases,"  had  an- 
swered Myrto. 

But  "her  nobility'*  knew  better. 

*'  What  was  the  name  of  Leftheri's  father  ?  " 
she  inquired. 

"Petro." 

"Then  Petro  it  shall  be,  and  if  it  be  allowed  I 
will  give  him  also  the  name  of  my  own  father, 
Paul." 

"Why,"  cried  Myrto,  delighted,  "he  will  have 
the  same  nameday  for  both  names,  on  the 
twenty-ninth  of  June." 

"That  will  be  splendid.  Peter  Paul!  It  was 
the  name  of  a  great  painter,  too,  but  I  suppose 
you  do  not  care  about  that." 

It  so  fell  out  that  on  the  morning  Jim  arrived 
Katharine  felt  the  need  of  open  air,  after  having 
been  cooped  up  one  whole  day  and  the  greater 
part  of  another  in  a  tiny  house,  and  had  started 
early,  accompanied  by  Barba  Stathi  and  his 
donkey,  for  Poseidon's  Temple;  descending,  be- 
fore the  heat  became  too  great,  over  the  hills 
into  the  Monastery  woods.  There  she  stayed 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  165 

during  the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon,  reading, 
talking  to  old  Barba  Stathi,  exploring  the  chapel, 
even  attempting  to  sketch  the  beautiful  inner 
court  with  its  trellis  of  grapes  and  its  tall  palm 
tree  in  the  centre. 

About  five  o'clock  they  started  for  Poros  by 
the  Monastery  road.  But  when  they  arrived  at 
the  big  beach  where  the  fig  trees  grow,  it  oc- 
curred to  Katharine  that  it  would  be  far  too  early 
when  she  returned  to  the  village  to  shut  herself 
up  in  the  hotel,  so  she  explained  to  Barba  Stathi 
that  she  would  stay  here  by  the  sea  and  return 
alone,  later  on.  She  paid  him  generously,  and 
dismissed  him  with  a  smile,  and  Kitso  with  a 
friendly  pat,  on  their  homeward  way. 

There  is  a  tiny  crescent-shaped  beach  after  the 
big  one,  closed  in  by  white-veined  gray  rocks 
over  which  the  little  waves  tumble  and  foam. 
Katharine  sat  down  there  and  watched  the  sea 
washing  in  between  the  jutting  rocks  in  a  perfect 
semicircle,  leaving  white  fringes  of  froth  as  it 
retreated.  She  was  particularly  fascinated  by  a 
smooth  brown  stone  just  in  front  of  her,  which 
was  entirely  submerged  at  every  second  wave. 
The  mass  of  water  swept  so  smoothly  over  it, 
and  each  time  it  emerged  so  wet  and  shining, 
Katharine  thought  she  would  like  to  be  that 
stone  and  feel  the  cool  waves  closing  over  her, 


166       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

if  only  she  could  be  sure  of  not  choking.  Then 
she  smiled  at  the  childishness  of  the  thought. 
Beyond  the  point  of  the  rocks  far  away  to  the 
left,  she  could  just  distinguish  a  little  white 
house,  a  walled-in  garden  with  tall  cypresses 
towering  above  the  lemon  trees,  and  then  the 
headland  with  the  sunset  glow  on  its  pines.  At 
the  extreme  point  two  solitary  trees  stood  out 
darkly  against  the  pale  pink  of  the  sky.  The  red 
line  of  the  Monastery  road  wound  up  through 
the  pines,  and  below  them  the  rocks  dipped 
boldly  into  the  purple  sea.  Then  straight  out 
from  the  rocks  swept  the  line  of  the  horizon,  that 
perfect  pure  blue  line  that  surpasses  any  curve 
in  beauty.  The  violet  hills  of  the  mainland  op- 
posite closed  it  in  on  the  other  side. 

The  whole  scene  was  almost  too  perfect,  its 
coloring  too  vivid.  In  a  painting  Katharine  was 
positive  she  would  have  criticised  it  as  too  con- 
ventionally beautiful  in  all  its  details.  But  in 
nature  the  eye  had  nothing  left  to  wish  for. 
Katharine  thought  of  her  sister  at  Grindelwald. 
Not  for  all  the  snow  mountains  and  foaming 
cataracts  in  the  world  would  she  have  changed 
with  her,  though  she  knew  Hester  was  con- 
vinced of  the  contrary,  and  must  be  contempt- 
uously pitying  her  for  staying  behind  to  be 
broiled  in  Greece  without  any  necessity.  She 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  167 

wondered  what  part  of  the  brain  or  tempera- 
ment it  is  that  invests  all  lines  and  coloring  of  the 
South  with  such  an  intense  charm  for  some  peo- 
ple, a  charm  which  they  cannot  always  put  into 
words,  when  lovers  of  the  North  complain  so  bit- 
terly of  the  heat,  the  dust,  and  the  monotony  of 
constant  sunshine.  This  made  her  think  of  the 
book  she  had  with  her,  and  open  it.  The  author 
was  not  only  a  lover  of  the  South  like  herself,  but 
he  put  her  love  into  words  for  her,  for  which  she 
was  profoundly  grateful.  The  book  was  Rodd's 
"Violet  Crown,"  without  which  she  rarely  went 
anywhere  in  Greece.  Not  the  verses  of  a  great 
poet,  she  knew  that;  but  of  one  who  had  writ- 
ten most  tenderly  of  the  land  she  loved,  and  who 
had  defined  its  charm  more  perfectly  than  any 
modern  author. 

She  opened  the  volume  at  hazard,  looking  up 
at  the  end  of  each  verse. 

A  hillside  scored  with  hollow  veins 
Through  age-long  wash  of  autumn  rains, 
As  purple  as  with  vintage  stains. 

Surely  those  were  the  hills  opposite  her  on  the 
mainland !  And  then  — 

A  shore  with  deep  indented  bays, 
And  o'er  the  gleaming  waterways 
A  glimpse  of  islands  in  the  haze. 


168       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

Yes,  there  were  two  of  them:  San  Giorgio  and 
the  lion-shaped  Modi  in  the  distance. 

When  she  came  to  the  last  verse,  she  smiled 
to  hear  the  goat  bells  tinkle  on  the  slopes  behind 
her,  they  fitted  in  so  perfectly. 

A  shepherd's  crook,  a  coat  of  fleece, ) 

A  grazing  flock;  the  sense  of  peace, 

The  long,  sweet  silence,  —  this  is  Greece! 

As  she  put  the  book  down,  its  leaves  fell  open 
of  their  own  accord  at  one  of  the  last  pages,  and 
she  read  once  more  the  verses  she  almost  knew 
by  heart. 

There  is  a  spirit  haunts  the  place 
All  other  lands  must  lack, 
A  speaking  voice,  a  living  grace, 
That  beckons  fancy  back. 
Dear  isles  and  sea-indented  shore, 
Till  songs  be  no  more  sung, 
The  souls  of  singers  gone  before 
Shall  keep  your  lovers  young. 

She  had  not  read  for  many  minutes,  but  when 
she  looked  up  again  the  glow  was  already  fading. 
The  purple  of  the  sea  turned  to  green  as  she 
watched,  the  violet  of  the  hills  to  a  dull  blue,  and 
over  the  rose  of  the  sky  a  gray  veil  seemed  to  be 
slowly  drawn.  The  little  house  in  the  distance 
stood  out  whiter  against  the  hill,  and  the  pines 
darker.  A  small  brown  fishing-boat  shot  out  be- 
hind the  rocks  on  the  right.  The  two  men  in  it 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  169 

sang  as  they  rowed :  a  monotonous  chant  which 
died  away  as  they  disappeared  round  the  rocks 
to  the  left.  The  plash  of  their  oars  came  fainter 
and  fainter  for  a  few  moments  and  then  ceased. 

Katharine  stood  upright,  shook  her  skirt  free 
of  the  pebbles  she  had  collected  in  her  lap,  picked 
up  her  basket  and  book,  and  turned  to  go. 
From  the  road  behind  the  shore  came  a  series 
of  short,  sharp  barks.  Surely,  she  thought,  that 
was  not  a  sheep  dog. 

The  next  moment  a  wildly  excited  little  white 
ball  came  tumbling  down  the  slope,  and  was  fol- 
lowed a  moment  later  by  a  man  in  gray,  walk- 
ing rapidly  towards  her.  As  soon  as  she  caught 
sight  of  the  outline  of  his  figure  against  the  sky, 
she  stopped  suddenly.  For  a  moment  a  darkness 
came  before  her  eyes,  and  her  knees  trembled. 
The  little  dog  jumped  wildly  about  her,  but  she 
did  not  heed  him. 

The  man  came  nearer.  As  he  came  he  raised 
his  hat  and  just  spoke  her  name  in  a  low  voice: 
"Katharine!" 

When  she  heard  his  voice,  she  started  forward 
and  her  lips  parted.  But  no  sound  came  from 
them.  They  only  trembled  a  little. 

"Katharine!"  he  said  again,  hoarsely,  putting 
out  his  hands. 

She  came  two  steps  nearer  and,  stretching  out 


170       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

both  her  own,  she  laid  them  in  his,  and  stood 
before  him,  her  head  bent  so  low  that  her  face 
was  hidden. 

The  man's  face  flushed. 

"No,"  he  said,  almost  roughly,  "no,  don't  do 
that.  Look  at  me.  For  God's  sake,  look  at  me, 
Katharine." 

She  raised  her  head,  and  their  eyes  met. 

"I  have  come,  you  see,  as  soon  as  you  sent  for 
me,  though  —  if  you  remember  —  I  swore  I 
would  never  see  you  again.  Tell  me  now,  if  you 
can,  what  made  you  say  what  you  did  to  me  at 
that  awful  time?  It  was  a  brutal  thing  to  say  to 
a  man,  Katharine." 

"Jim,"  and  she  disengaged  one  hand  to  wipe 
her  eyes  clear  of  the  tears  which  had  gathered  in 
them,  "it  would  be  far  harder  for  me  to  beg  your 
forgiveness  for  the  vile  words  I  said,  if  I  had 
wronged  you  in  my  thoughts  for  any  length  of 
time.  But  I  never  really  believed  them,  Jim.  I 
was  angry,  dear,  blindly,  furiously  angry,  and  I 
just  picked  out  the  words  I  knew  would  hurt 
most  terribly,  as,  had  I  been  younger,  I  might 
have  picked  up  a  stone  to  throw  at  you." 

"I  wish  it  had  been  a  stone.  It  would  have 
hurt  much  less." 

"Yes;  I  know  that.  Jim,  you  can  never  under- 
stand, however  you  may  try,  those  moments  of 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  171 

mad  anger,  of  cruel  anger.  You  are  so  different, 
so  good,  they  never  come  to  you.  When  they  get 
hold  of  me,  I  want  to  hurt,  and  to  hurt  badly. 
Afterwards,  when  you  had  left  me,  I  tried  to 
make  myself  believe  what  I  had  said,  as  a  sort  of 
justification.  Jim,  I  know  you  will  be  loving  and 
dear  to  me  always,  I  know  you  will  want  me 
to  forgive  myself,  to  forget  —  but  you,  you,  can 
you  ever  quite  forgive?  Can  you  ever  forget  that 
I  wanted  to  hurt  you?  Can  you  ever  wipe  out 
entirely?  Ah,  Jim,  Jim,"  and  her  voice  broke, 
"Jim,  we  shall  always  remember.  There  is  no 
forgiveness  that  can  ever  make  cruel  words 
unsaid."  The  tears  rolled  fast  down  her  face. 

Jim  lifted  her  hands  to  his  lips  and  kissed 
them  very  tenderly:  "No,  dear,  I  am  afraid 
there  is  n't." 

For  a  moment  her  face  was  convulsed.  Then 
she  lifted  her  head  up  and  tried  to  smile  bravely 
through  her  tears. 

"Yes,  Jim,  I  know.  But  we  will  try  not  to  let 
them  spoil  our  happiness,  won't  we?" 

He  pressed  both  her  hands  close  to  him  and 
looked  into  her  face.  "Dear,"  he  said,  "my  own 
dear  one,  I  know  perfectly  well  that  I  seem  a 
brute,  and  worse,  not  to  say  at  once  that  no  for- 
giveness is  needed;  that  everything  you  do  or  say 
is  forgiven  in  advance;  that  it  is  all  forgottei} 


172       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

long  ago.  But  it  would  not  be  true.  I've  suffered 
horribly,  dear,  and  you  would  not  believe  me  if  I 
said  I  had  not.  Only  this  you  must  believe.  I 
love  you  so,  that,  if  you  were  to  hurt  me  ten 
times  worse,  I  should  come  back  to  you  again 
whenever  you  sent  for  me.  Katharine,  I  can't 
forget  the  pain  all  at  once,  dear,  but  I  know  you 
will  take  it  away  —  and  now,  I  only  love  you  — 
I  love  you."  His  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke. 

"If  I  live,"  she  said  solemnly,  "I  will  take  all 
the  pain  away.  Oh,  Jim,  Jim,  I  don't  deserve 
you  should  be  so  good  to  me."  And  then  she  put 
her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

But  there  was  some  one  else  to  be  reckoned 
with.  Pat  had  been  vainly  trying  to  attract  their 
attention  for  some  time  past.  A  seashore,  a 
tempting  amount  of  stones  to  be  thrown  and 
fetched,  and  two  human  beings  who  acted  as 
though  he  did  not  exist,  struck  him  as  a  most  un- 
natural and  disagreeable  state  of  affairs.  But 
when  Katharine  came  so  close  to  Jim,  and  when 
she  threw  her  arms  round  him,  Pat  gave  three  or 
four  sharp  barks  of  astonishment,  and,  when  her 
dress  brushed  carelessly  over  him,  a  distinct  growl 
of  displeasure.  He  was  not  at  all  certain  whether 
or  not  to  defend  his  master  —  he  did  not  remem- 
ber to  have  seen  such  liberties  taken  with  him 
before. 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  173 

Katharine  was  the  first  to  notice  his  state  of 
mind,  and  she  turned  on  him,  crying  and  laugh- 
ing at  the  same  time.  « 

"Yes,  I  shall,  Pat,  and  you  may  just  make  up 
your  mind  to  it  right  off.  It  will  save  you  getting 
so  mad  pretty  often." 

And  then  a  still  more  unheard-of  liberty  was 
taken,  for  he  suddenly  found  his  plump  little 
person  squeezed  tight  in  Katharine's  arms,  and 
the  white  parting  on  the  top  of  his  head  kissed 
repeatedly.  Somehow  he  did  not  object  as  much 
as  he  would  have  fancied.  Then  she  threw  a 
stone  for  him  to  fetch  as  far  away  as  she  could. 

"Jim,  how  did  you  find  me?" 

"Just  luck,  dear;  I  went  for  a  walk  to  kill  the 
time  till  the  hour  those  people  thought  you  'd 
be  likely  to  be  back,  and  I  hit  on  this  road." 

"You  had  my  letter,  then?" 

"  On  Wednesday.  Sir  Kenneth,  thank  Heaven, 
had  just  returned  from  Aix,  and  though  I  was 
not  due  to  leave  Athens  before  the  end  of 
August,  as  Harrington  was  to  have  taken  his 
leave  first,  I  got  him  to  change  with  me." 

"And  the  first  letter  I  wrote  you,  Jim?" 

"I  never  had  it.  It  may  have  been  when  I  was 
away  shooting  at  Corfou.  A  good  many  of  my 
letters  were  lost  then.  You  never  thought  I  could 
have  received  it  and  made  no  sign,  did  you?*' 


174       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"It  seemed  hard  to  believe,  but  I  knew  I  had 
deserved  even  that." 

Jim's  answer  made  Pat  drop  the  big  stone  he 
was  carrying  and  bark  continuously.  His  master 
turned  on  him  fiercely.  "Stop  that,  you  little 
brute."  Then,  at  the  sight  of  his  penitence  and 
gathered-in  tail,  he  relented:  "Oh,  all  right,  old 
fellow,  you  did  n't  understand.  You'll  learn  in 
time."  But  Pat's  feelings  had  been  badly  hurt, 
and  were  only  to  be  soothed  by  chocolate  out  of 
Katharine's  basket. 

"Look  here,  dear,"  said  Jim,  presently;  "you 
know  my  Aunt  Charlotte  stayed  all  last  spring 
in  Athens  at  the  Angleterre,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  met  her  one  day  last  March  when  I 
was  out  shopping  alone,  and  she  stopped  and 
spoke  so  nicely  to  me.  It  was  so  lovely  of  her  to 
do  it,  when  she  might  have  passed*me  by  with 
the  chilliest  of  bows.  I  could  have  hugged  her 
for  it." 

"She's  really  fond  of  you.  So  you  won't  be 
vexed,  will  you,  that  last  night  I  told  her 
about  your  letter  and  how  things  were  all  right 
with  us  again?  You  don't  mind,  do  you?" 

Katharine  gave  a  little  start,  but  she  answered 
at  once:  — 

"Why,  no,  I  don't  mind.  Did  she  seem 
pleased,  Jim?" 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  175 

"Pleased!  Why,  she  was  so  glad,  she  just  sat 
down  and  regularly  cried  for  joy.  She's  an 
awfully  good  sort,  is  Aunt  Charlotte,  and  she 
promised,  any  time  I  wired  to  her,  that  she  'd 
come  out  here  and  stay  with  us  for  as  long  as  we 
liked.  How  does  that  idea  strike  you?  Better 
than  returning  to  town  just  now,  is  n't  it?" 

"Let's  go  right  away  now  and  cable,  shall 
we?" 

Then  as  they  got  to  the  road  again  Katha- 
rine stopped  a  moment  and  laid  her  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"Ah,  Jim,  just  look!  You  have  never  been 
here  before,  I  know.  Look  at  that  red  road 
through  the  pines  —  we  shall  go  there  to-mor- 
row. Look  at  that  curve  of  the  bay  and  the 
reflection  of  those  pink  clouds.  Did  you  ever 
see  anything  so  perfect?  Jim,  speak  —  isn't  it 
glorious?  " 

"Pretty  decent,"  acquiesced  Jim,  after  a  hasty 
glance  round;  and  then,  —  "Don't  ask  me  to 
look  at  anything  else  but  you  for  a  few  days 
yet;  I've  been  too  famished.  And  photos  are  no 
good  after  you've  had  them  some  time.  They 
get  to  look  like  themselves  and  not  like  the  real 
person  at  all." 

"I  know,"  agreed  Katharine,  laughing  hap- 
pily. 


176       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

They  walked  slowly  back  towards  the  village. 
Pat  trotted  in  front  with  a  stone  in  his  mouth, 
so  big  that  Katharine  was  afraid  it  would  dislo- 
cate his  jaws.  He  had  triumphantly  dug  it  out 
of  a  large  thyme  bush  into  which  it  had  been 
thrown,  and  nothing  would  induce  him  to  let  it 
drop.  They  laughed  at  his  determined  air  and 
widely  distended  jaws,  but  this  offended  him  so 
deeply  that  he  trotted  on  still  faster  and  left 
them  severely  alone. 

They  did  not  talk  much.  At  the  place  where 
the  cliff  is  steep  and  the  wall  low,  Jim  passed 
Katharine's  hand  through  his  arm  and  kept  it 
there.  When  they  came  in  sight  of  the  Naval 
School,  the  lights  were  already  lighted,  and  by  the 
time  they  reached  the  Narrow  Beach,  night  was 
upon  them,  —  the  soft  summer  night  of  Poros, 
starlighted  and  pine-scented. 

It  was  nearly  a  month  later,  in  the  early  dawn. 
The  sky  in  the  east  was  very  faintly  tinted  with 
pink.  Katharine  and  Jim  were  walking  rapidly 
along  the  quay  towards  the  village,  talking  as 
they  went. 

They  seemed  almost  the  first  astir;  the  only 
people  they  met  were  two  old  women  going  to 
church  for  the  early  service,  —  it  being  the  fort- 
night before  the  Feast  of  the  Virgin, — and  Barba 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  177 

Stathi,  who  was  starting  for  the  hills  with  Kitso, 
and  who  smiled  and  wished  them  good-day  as  he 
passed. 

Pat  of  course  trotted  before  them,  jubilant  at 
this  early  walk. 

"Jim,  are  you  quite,  quite  sure?  A  disap- 
pointment would  be  too  terrible  after  we  once 
tell  her." 

"Perfectly  sure.  Our  boatman  knows  the  man 
quite  well.  In  fact  he  explained  something  about 
being  a  sort  of  a  connection  of  his,  koumbaro  he 
called  it.  And  he  spoke  to  him  late  last  night  after 
the  boat  arrived.  Our  man,  Yanni,  wanted  to 
persuade  him  to  go  straight  on  to  his  house  and 
his  wife.  But  the  other  fellow  would  n't.  Sort  of 
hung  back,  don't  you  know?  Did  n't  seem  sure 
of  his  reception,  as  far  as  I  understood." 

"Oh,  poor  fellow!  But,  Jim,  it  seems  strange. 
These  sponge-diving  boats  nearly  always  return 
about  Easter." 

"This  is  not  the  boat  he  left  in.  I  told  you  be- 
fore, dear,  but  you  were  too  excited  to  listen.  He 
had  a  quarrel  with  his  captain,  it  seems,  left  him 
at  Tripoli,  and  shipped  back  here  in  an  ordinary 
trading-boat.  Does  n't  seem  in  a  great  hurry  to 
leave  it  either,  now  he  is  here." 

"Oh,  Jim,  suppose  he  should  have  left  in  it 
again  this  morning?" 


178       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"No  fear.  The  boat  belongs  here,  Yanni 
said." 

"Did  he  tell  him  of  the  child?" 

"Did  n't  inquire,  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I 
should  suppose  he'd  be  pretty  likely  to." 

"Jim,  it 's  too  perfectly  lovely.  I  've  been  feel- 
ing kind  of  selfish  all  these  weeks  when  I  thought 
of  my  happiness  and  her  misery.  And  now  to 
think  I  'm  to  be  the  one  to  run  in  and  tell  her — ' 

"  Gently,  little  girl,  gently.  The  poor  creature 
can't  be  over-strong  yet,  and  — " 

"Joy  never  harmed  a  woman  yet,  Jim,  and 
never  will;  but  I'll  be  gentle,  never  fear.  It's 
over  there,  that  little  low  house  beyond  the 
bright  blue  one  with  the  green  shutters.  Let's 
hurry,  dear.  Is  n't  it  lovely  out  at  this  hour?  We 
shall  have  time  to  go  right  up  to  the  Little  Spring 
and  be  back  at  the  hotel  before  your  Aunt  Char- 
lotte has  even  thought  of  coffee.  Just  up  these 
little  steps  —  are  n't  they  steep?  No,  Pat,  Pat! 
don't  go  sniffing  at  all  the  rubbish  heaps.  Here 
we  are,  dear." 

There  was  a  pinkish  reflection  on  the  white 
walls  of  Myrto's  little  house,  and  every  leaf  of 
the  old  mulberry  tree  in  the  courtyard  was 
clearly  outlined  on  the  pale  morning  sky. 

"You  stay  outside,  Jim.  She  may  be  asleep 
yet,  poor  thing." 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  179 

Jim,  nothing  loath,  waited  with  Pat  beside 
him,  while  Katharine,  after  tapping  gently, 
pushed  open  the  door  and  went  in.  He  heard 
voices  at  once.  Evidently  Myrto  was  awake. 
He  could  not  catch  the  rapid  Greek,  but  once  he 
fancied  he  heard  a  sort  of  gasp.  Then  silence. 
Then  Katharine's  voice  again,  low  and  pleading, 
then  slightly  raised.  At  last  the  shutters  of  the 
low  window  were  thrown  open  and  he  heard  him- 
self called.  Katharine  was  standing  at  the  open 
window,  framed  in  the  vine  that  grew  around  it, 
with  the  little  child  in  her  arms. 

"Jim,  come  and  help  me;  I  can't  persuade  her 
that  she  must  go  to  him.  She  thinks  he  will  not 
want  her." 

Myrto  staggered  past  Katharine  and  stood  in 
the  doorway,  her  hands  tightly  pressed  against 
her  breast.  She  looked  very  white,  and  her  eyes 
were  fixed. 

"And  if  he  should  send  me  away  from  him?" 
she  said,  in  a  choking  voice. 

Jim  saw  that  Katharine  was  on  the  verge  of 
tears,  and  he  summoned  his  best  Greek  to 
come  to  the  rescue. 

"No,"  he  said,  "never  will  he  send  you  away. 
He  wishes  to  see  you  very  much,  so  much  that  he 
fears  to  come  to  you." 

"He  fears!  —  he  fears!"  she  repeated;  "oh, 


180       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

my  man,  my  man!"  Suddenly  she  sank  down 
beside  the  door-post  and  began  sobbing  vio- 
lently, hiding  her  face  in  her  arms. 

In  an  instant  Katharine  was  bending  over  her, 
trying  to  make  her  cease,  thrusting  the  child  into 
her  arms. 

"Take  it,  Myrto.  Take  it  and  go.  Take  the 
wee  little  creature  to  his  father  who  has  never 
seen  him.  The  boat  stands  out  there  near  the 
Rock  of  the  Cross.  All  the  men  left  it  last 
night.  Only  Leftheri  remained  on  board.  Go,  I 
tell  you,  go ! " 

At  last  they  persuaded  her.  She  rose,  tied  her 
kerchief  over  her  head,  and  wrapped  a  shawl 
round  the  child.  As  she  closed  the  door  and 
turned  towards  the  sea,  Katharine,  who  knew 
many  of  the  island  phrases,  said:  "May  his 
return  be  joyful  to  you." 

Myrto  stopped  and  turned  her  face  towards 
them  with  the  tears  still  streaming  down  her 
cheeks.  "Whether  he  return  with  me  or  not, 
God  lengthen  your  years,  you  who  have  been 
so  good  to  me,  and  may  your  eyes  never  see 
parting." 

They  smiled  their  thanks  and  stood  together 
looking  after  her,  as  she  went  down  the  steep 
street  with  the  soft  burden  in  her  arms.  She 
walked  past  the  deserted  square,  past  the  mar- 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  181 

ketplace,  where  a  few  early  sellers  were  setting 
out  their  wares,  and  straight  along  between  the 
smaller  houses  of  the  village  and  the  line  of 
moored  boats  towards  the  Rock  of  the  Cross. 

Three  or  four  people  looked  after  her  curi- 
ously, but  she  did  not  see  them.  A  girl,  whom  she 
pushed  unconsciously  out  of  her  way,  called  out 
angrily  after  her,  but  she  paid  no  heed  to  the 
cries.  The  child  whimpered,  and  she  hushed  it 
mechanically  without  looking  at  it.  Once  she 
stumbled  over  a  net  and  the  old  man  who 
helped  her  up  said:  "Surely  the  net  is  big 
enough  before  your  eyes.  And  carrying  a  child, 
too!  Are  you  blind,  my  good  woman?"  But  she 
did  not  answer  him. 

The  boat,  a  large  one  painted  blue,  with  its 
sails  spread  open  to  dry,  was  moored  close  to  the 
sea  wall.  A  broad  plank  led  from  the  shore  to  the 
low  deck.  Myrto  knew  it  at  once  for  a  Poros 
boat  which  often  carried  lemons  to  Constanti- 
nople. A  little  yellow  dog  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
boat  and  barked  at  her  persistently.  He  seemed 
the  only  live  thing  on  board.  Without  pausing, 
only  holding  the  child  a  little  closer  to  her,  she 
placed  her  foot  on  the  inclined  plank  and  stepped 
firmly  up  on  to  the  little  deck.  There  she  stag- 
gered and  caught  at  a  rope  to  steady  herself. 
Her  limbs  were  heavy  and  numb,  and  her  head 


182       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

felt  as  though  she  walked  in  a  dream.  At  last  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  heard  a  movement  below, 
like  the  drawing  of  a  wooden  stool  across  the 
floor.  She  advanced  noiselessly  to  the  dark 
opening  leading  to  the  small  cabin  and  looked 
down.  A  man  was  there  alone,  seated  before  a 
table,  his  head  buried  in  his  arms. 

Suddenly  Myrto  seemed  to  awaken,  and  with 
an  inarticulate  cry,  just  as  she  was,  with  the 
child  in  her  arms,  she  half  climbed,  half  flung 
herself  down  the  stairs  towards  him. 

It  was  long  after  sunrise  when  the  man  and  the 
woman,  with  their  child  in  his  arms,  climbed  up 
the  steep  cabin  stairs  and  stepped  out  together 
into  the  light. 


THE  STEPMOTHER 

A  babe  asleep  with  flower-soft  face  that  gleamed 
To  sun  and  seaward  as  it  laughed  and  dreamed. 

SWINBUBNB. 

UNDER  the  olives,  on  an  old  knitted  shawl 
that  had  once  been  red,  little  Yannaki  lay 
asleep.  He  looked  hot  and  flushed.  Andriana, 
bending  over  him,  pushed  her  hand  under  the 
black  curls  at  the  back  of  his  neck,  to  see  whe- 
ther he  were  at  all  feverish  again.  No,  the  skin 
was  quite  moist.  The  child,  however,  had  been 
restless  all  night  and  fretful  all  morning. 

His  elder  sister,  Marika,  aged  ten,  never  knew 
how  to  keep  him  quiet  and  amused,  and  their 
father  had  sworn  at  both  the  children  for  their 
noise,  and  at  his  wife  for  not  keeping  them  in 
order;  though  he  would  have  done  more  than 
swear  if  she  had  occupied  herself  with  them 
instead  of  preparing  his  food. 

Andriana  had  not  attempted  to  excuse  the 
child's  peevishness  to  her  husband.  She  had 
long  ago  learned  the  uselessness  of  words.  But 


184       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND" 

when  he  had  left  the  house,  and  Marika  had 
started  for  school,  instead  of  sitting  down  to  her 
loom  and  letting  Yannaki  play  about  the  court- 
yard as  usual,  she  had  tied  a  white  kerchief  over 
her  head,  thrown  the  old  shawl  over  her  shoul- 
der, and  lifting  the  boy  in  her  arms  set  out  with 
a  rapid  step  towards  the  Narrow  Beach. 

He,  an  easy  weight  for  his  four  years,  clung 
round  her  neck,  pleased  and  chattering.  As  soon 
as  he  caught  sight  of  the  sea  he  clamored  to  be 
put  down.  There  on  the  shore  he  would  will- 
ingly have  spent  all  the  afternoon,  running  to 
meet  the  little  waves  and  throwing  pebbles  into 
the  water,  but  Andriana  took  his  hand  and  led 
him  resolutely  on.  Though  already  November, 
the  sun  was  still  hot  so  early  in  the  afternoon, 
and  she  wanted  to  get  to  the  trees. 

Past  the  rocks  she  led  him,  past  the  little 
white-walled  cemetery  with  its  tall  cypress  trees, 
up  to  the  broad  Monastery  Road  that  follows 
the  coast,  winding  up  amongst  the  pines;  then 
over  the  bridge,  turning  to  the  left  off  the  white 
highway  on  to  the  thyme-covered  slopes;  past 
the  lemon  orchards  where  the  big  dogs  barked  at 
them  through  the  aloe  hedge,  the  small  hand 
holding  more  tightly  to  the  larger  one  till  they 
were  out  of  hearing;  then  over  a  low  wall  right 
into  a  field  where  the  olive  trees  grew  gray  and 


THE  STEPMOTHER  185 

twisted  out  of  a  carpet  of  purple  and  rose 
anemones. 

The  child  dropped  upon  his  knees  in  their 
midst,  plucking  them  with  both  hands  as  fast 
as  he  could  and  gurgling  with  delight.  Andriana 
seated  herself  on  the  ground,  leaning  her  tired 
back  against  the  trunk  of  an  olive  tree,  and 
reveled  in  the  boy's  enjoyment.  He  would  fill 
his  arms  with  the  purple  flowers  and  fling  them 
all  away  again  for  what  seemed  to  him  larger  or 
brighter  ones  a  little  farther  on.  Then  there 
were  little  cries  of  joy  at  the  rare  surprises  of 
the  rose-violet  double  anemones,  which  he  car- 
ried to  her  in  triumph. 

Soon,  however,  he  wearied.  The  stones  lay 
thickly  over  the  red  earth,  and  the  heavier  ones 
had  to  be  pushed  out  of  their  places  with  a 
great  effort  for  his  small  arms  when  he  wanted 
to  get  the  longer  stemmed  flowers  which  curled 
under  them.  Yannaki  gradually  crept  close  up 
to  Andriana's  knees,  and  there  he  soon  went  off 
to  sleep,  his  little  earth-stained  fists,  still  full  of 
purple  flowers,  tucked  under  his  chin.  Andriana 
slipped  the  old  red  shawl  under  him  and  brought 
one  end  over  his  legs.  After  all,  it  was  Novem- 
ber, though  a  warm  day,  and  the  first  rains  had 
fallen  nearly  a  month  ago. 

Few  Poriote  women  would  have  thought  of 


186       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

bringing  the  child  out  here.  They  would  have 
laid  him  down  on  a  bed  in  a  hot  dark  room,  and 
then  wondered  that  he  did  not  sleep,  or  if  he 
did,  that  he  should  awake  peevish  and  tired; 
but  Andriana  had  been  nurse  hi  Athens  to  child- 
ren of  good  families,  and  she  remembered  how 
often,  after  a  bad  night,  her  little  charges  had 
fallen  asleep  in  their  pretty  white  carriages,  in 
the  cool  green  shade  of  the  royal  gardens. 

Here,  too,  under  the  olives  there  could  be  no 
angry  shouts  to  awaken  the  boy  trembling  and 
crying,  no  blows  to  follow  the  tears.  Andriana 
winced  and  her  eyes  hardened,  softening  again 
as  they  fell  on  the  child  beside  her.  He  was  not 
her  own;  but  as  she  told  herself  every  day,  it 
was  just  the  same  as  if  he  were.  Nothing  could 
have  made  him  any  dearer  to  her. 

Very  little  had  been  known  in  the  island  about 
Andoni,  the  widower;  and  the  Poriotes,  who 
have  never  cared  for  strangers,  looked  askance 
at  him  and  his  two  children,  though  he  had 
taken  up  his  abode  in  Poros  for  over  a  year 
before  Andriana  married  him.  He  had  come 
there  with  Yannaki  still  in  swaddling  clothes, 
and  only  Marika,  a  thin,  red -eyed  child  of  six, 
as  nurse  and  general  helper.  Of  his  first  wife  he 
never  spoke.  She  was  dead,  he  had  answered 


THE  STEPMOTHER  187 

shortly,  when  questioned;  had  died  when  the 
boy  was  born.  It  was  not  even  precisely  known 
whence  he  had  come.  Piraeus,  some  said,  while 
others  talked  of  Patras,  adding  a  confused  story 
of  some  ill-doings  there  which  had  necessitated 
a  precipitate  departure.  But  there  was  nothing 
definite.  He  was  a  joiner  by  trade,  and  a  clever 
workman  when  he  chose  to  work,  which  was  not 
often. 

Why  Andriana  had  married  him  and  cheer- 
fully accepted  the  burden  of  his  household  and 
the  two  small  children,  no  one  in  the  island  had 
quite  understood.  Even  the  women  round  the 
fountain  in  the  evenings  had  not  given  a  defi- 
nite opinion.  It  was  true  she  had  been  over  thirty 
at  the  time,  and  her  age,  they  agreed,  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  her  decision.  Still,  she 
was  not  entirely  dowerless,  and  might,  they 
thought,  have  found  a  husband  among  the 
islanders,  instead  of  this  stranger.  She  pos- 
sessed a  few  olive  trees  and  a  small  vineyard, 
which  had  been  the  pride  of  her  father's  heart. 
He,  an  honest  sea-captain,  had  died  many  years 
ago,  while  Andriana  was  still  quite  young.  Her 
mother  she  could  not  remember.  An  elder  sister 
of  her  father's  had  taken  Andriana  to  live  with 
her  after  his  death,  as  a  matter  of  course.  This 
old  aunt  of  hers  lived  with  a  widowed  daughter- 


188       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

in-law  and  her  five  little  children.  There  were 
consequently  many  mouths  to  fill  besides  An- 
driana's,  but  these  women  did  not  hesitate  for 
a  moment  about  taking  the  orphan  in,  nor  even 
think  better  of  themselves  for  the  act.  It  was  an 
evil  stroke  of  Fate,  that  was  all.  Blood  counts 
for  something  in  Greece,  and  no  child,  though 
entirely  destitute,  will  ever  be  left  to  public 
charity  if  there  be  even  a  second  cousin  to  claim 
kinship  with  it,  who  may  have  a  loaf  of  bread, 
a  handful  of  olives,  and  a  mattress  to  share. 
When  Andriana  grew  old  enough  to  work,  how- 
ever, as  she  had  a  mind  to  see  the  world,  no 
one  opposed  her  leaving  Poros  to  take  service 
in  Athens.  There,  being  strong,  capable,  and 
hard-working,  she  had  prospered,  and  had  even 
been  as  far  as  Constantinople  for  some  time. 
After  twelve  years  she  had  been  taken  with  the 
longing,  so  well  known  to  all  Poriotes,  to  revisit 
the  island.  There  was  no  one  she  particularly 
wished  to  see,  but  still  they  were  her  own  people 
and  it  was  her  own  country,  and  the  sound  of 
a  Poriote  voice  in  the  Zappion  Gardens  one 
day  made  her  suddenly  feel  very  homesick.  So 
she  returned  with  a  fair  amount  of  savings,  and 
was  civilly,  if  not  effusively  received.  She  had 
not  changed  much  in  these  years  of  absence, 
having  always  been  a  tall  thin  woman  with  a 


THE  STEPMOTHER  189 

quiet  voice,  and  never  having  had  much  fresh- 
ness of  youth  or  coloring  to  lose. 

Andoni,  the  widower,  had  rented  a  little  house 
near  her  aunt's,  and  day  after  day,  as  she  sat  on 
the  little  wooden  balcony  with  her  work,  she 
saw  him  passing  underneath.  A  fine  man  she 
thought  him.  He  had  a  pale  face  and  a  soft 
brown  beard,  and  being  young  still,  he  could 
hardly  help  looking  rather  a  pathetic  figure, 
with  an  infant  held  awkwardly  in  unaccustomed 
arms  and  an  older  child  walking  beside  him. 
Andriana,  who  had  lived  long  with  gentlefolk, 
noticed  his  scrupulous  cleanliness,  the  town  cut 
of  his  coat,  his  silky,  well-brushed  beard  and 
his  white  hands,  and  contrasted  them  with  the 
rough  clothes  and  unshaven  cheeks  of  most  of 
the  Poriote  men. 

One  day,  while  he  was  absent,  she  persuaded 
the  girl  Marika  to  run  out  to  play,  leaving  the 
babe  to  her.  She  looked  long  at  the  little  child, 
held  it  close,  put  her  face  against  the  downy 
black  head,  watched  the  tiny  hand  close  over 
her  rough  work-worn  finger,  and  let  it  creep 
surely  into  her  heart,  to  stay  there  always. 

So  when  the  eldest  of  her  cousins  came  to  her, 
half  laughing,  with  the  news  that  this  widower, 
this  stranger  from  no  one  knew  where,  had  sent 
messengers  to  him,  as  the  only  male  represent- 


190       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

ative  of  her  family,  with  proposals  of  marriage 
for  her,  she  astounded  them  all  by  accepting. 
After  all,  they  were  not  sorry  she  was  to  go  to 
a  home  of  her  own;  therefore  few  difficulties 
were  made,  and  still  fewer  inquiries  as  to  the 
man's  antecedents.  One  old  woman  only,  Kyra 
Sophoula,  who  had  known  Andriana's  father 
well,  told  her  aunt  that  Andoni  was  to  be  seen 
over-often  at  Sotiro's  tavern,  and  that  she  had 
many  a  time  taken  in  the  children  after  dark 
till  the  father  should  return;  aye,  and  had  even 
kept  them  all  night  when  he  was  not  in  a  fit  state 
for  the  little  girl  to  see  him.  But  her  warning 
was  unheeded.  "What  would  you!"  said  Kyra 
Phrosyni,  the  old  aunt;  "  when  a  man  is  alone, 
can  he  be  a  saint  or  a  hermit?"  There  would 
be  no  reason  for  all  such  little  excesses  when  he 
had  a  wife  at  home  to  look  after  him.  Andriana 
herself  only  smiled,  stitched  away  at  her  wed- 
ding-clothes, and  kept  little  Yannaki  almost 
entirely  with  her. 

She  married  Andoni,  and  before  the  "kour- 
ambiedes"  that  had  been  baked  for  the  marriage 
feast  had  all  been  eaten,  she  knew  she  had  made 
a  mistake.  He  was  an  incorrigible  sluggard  to 
begin  with,  having  been  all  his  life  content  to 
earn  barely  sufficient  to  keep  a  loaf  on  the  shelf, 
a  mattress  on  the  floor,  and  decent  clothing  on 


THE  STEPMOTHER  191 

his  own  back.  The  personal  cleanliness  and 
fastidiousness  which  had  attracted  Andriana 
were,  strange  to  say,  almost  his  only  good  quali- 
ties. They  did  not,  however,  extend  to  his  child- 
ren, for  the  poor  little  things  were  in  tatters 
until  their  stepmother  began  to  make  and  mend 
for  them.  He  worked  on  an  average  three  days 
out  of  the  seven.  The  rest  of  the  time  he  spent 
partly  in  bed,  combing  his  beard  or  reading  the 
newspaper,  and  the  afternoons  at  Sotiro's  tav- 
ern, slowly  imbibing  more  ouzo  than  he  could 
well  carry,  or  occupied  with  other  keen  politi- 
cians of  his  own  sort  in  setting  the  government 
right  on  all  points. 

Andriana  worked  for  him  and  for  his  children 
from  early  dawn  till  long  after  the  neighbors 
had  put  out  their  lights.  No  one  ever  saw  him 
or  them  with  holes  in  their  clothes,  nor  had  they 
often,  except  on  washing-days,  to  sit  down  to 
uncooked  food.  At  worst,  Andoni  had  always  a 
piece  of  white  touloumi  cheese  set  out  on  a  vine 
leaf  to  eat  with  his  bread,  even  if  she  and  the 
little  ones  had  to  eat  theirs  dry. 

He  never  attempted  to  disguise  from  his  wife 
that  his  sole  object  in  marrying  her  had  been 
to  procure  some  one  who  would  not  require 
payment  to  look  after  the  children.  He  prob- 
ably calculated  that  the  income  from  her  small 


192       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

vineyard  would  also  be  likely  to  prove  useful 
when  work  was  slack,  or  he  was  more  than  usu- 
ally disinclined  for  it.  Grapes,  however,  even 
in  Greece  will  not  ripen  year  after  year  if  left 
entirely  to  nature.  When  the  mildew  came,  he 
swore  at  his  bad  luck  and  did  nothing.  In  vain 
poor  Andriana  told  him  that  at  the  Agricultural 
Station  he  could  get  a  certain  powder  which  if 
regularly  sprinkled  on  the  leaves  would  save  the 
crop.  Stamo,  the  richest  landowner  of  the  island, 
had  saved  all  his  vines  by  using  it  two  seasons 
ago.  Andoni  declared  he  had  no  mind  to  try 
new-fangled  plans.  He  would  cross  over  to  the 
mainland  day  after  day,  stroll  aimlessly  around, 
stand  looking  down  at  the  sickly  leaves  riddled 
with  the  tiny  mildew  holes,  scowl  at  them,  and 
come  home  to  swear  at  his  wife  and  terrify  both 
children  nearly  into  fits;  but  beyond  this  he  did 
simply  nothing.  The  little  vineyard  gave  no 
fruit  that  year,  and  in  a  fit  of  disgust  he  sold  it 
for  what  it  would  fetch. 

Andriana  said  nothing.  Would  words  have 
brought  back  the  vines  her  father  had  loved  and 
tended?  Besides,  she  had  got  used  to  his  lazi- 
ness and  incompetence.  Somehow  she  thought 
and  felt  differently  from  most  of  the  island 
women.  The  money-earner  was  not  every- 
thing for  her.  She  would  have  condoned  the 


THE  STEPMOTHER  193 

indolence  if  only  he  had  left  her  a  few  of  her 
first  illusions;  if  only  she  might  have  heard  a 
kind  word  from  him  now  and  then ! 

But  even  when  the  world  went  smoothly  for 
him,  his  habitual  speech  was  of  the  curtest  and 
roughest,  and  when  he  was  in  a  bad  temper,  it 
was  appalling  in  its  brutality  and  filth.  Andri- 
ana  was  a  woman  of  the  people;  she  had  from 
her  childhood  upwards  mixed  with  the  lower 
classes,  whose  speech  is  not  delicate;  but  she 
had  never  even  dreamed  of  the  possible  existence 
of  some  of  the  curses  this  man  used  freely.  She 
would  shudder  at  first  as  though  their  very 
violence  might  call  down  evil  on  the  house,  and 
would  clasp  little  Yannaki  closer  to  her.  Later 
on  she  became  used  to  them.  Marika  was  a 
silent,  stolid  child,  seemingly  cowed  into  a  half- 
idiotic  condition,  but  whom  experience  had 
taught  when  to  keep  out  of  her  father's  way.  She 
soon  learned  that  food  and  help  came  from  her 
stepmother,  and  went  to  her  for  them;  otherwise 
she  seemed  to  take  little  interest  in  anything. 

But  the  joy  and  comfort  of  Andriana's  life 
was  the  boy.  The  neighbors  noticed  with  won- 
der that  she  was  never  seen  without  the  little 
one.  When  she  worked  at  her  loom  he  lay  on  a 
folded  red  shawl,  a  relic  of  Athenian  days,  at 
her  feet.  She  took  a  small  pitcher  to  the  foun- 


194       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

tain,  so  that  full  or  empty  it  could  easily  be 
carried  on  one  arm,  leaving  the  other  free  for 
Yannaki. 

She  had  to  trudge  there  and  home  again 
oftener,  in  consequence,  and  her  back  was  very 
tired  at  night;  but  what  of  that?  When  the 
boy  began  to  walk  he  was  always  clinging  to  her 
skirts,  and  if  she  ever  had  to  leave  him  his  cries 
for  his  "little  mother"  were  heard  all  over  the 
neighborhood. 

"Manitsa,  Manitsa,  take  'Annaki,  take  'An- 
naki  with  you,  Manitsa." 

She  had  even  taken  him  to  church  with  her 
once  or  twice,  but  the  attempt  had  not  been  a 
success.  Once,  in  fact,  in  answer  to  a  whisper  of 
Andriana's  he  had  scandalized  the  worshipers 
by  exclaiming  at  the  top  of  a  shrill  little  voice, 
"Why  does  the  priest  talk  in  church,  then, 
Manitsa?  "  So  that  Pappa  Thanassi  had  begged 
her  not  to  renew  the  experiment;  with  the  result 
that  she  stayed  away  herself. 

He  was  a  pretty,  winning  child,  with  a  little 
round  face  and  soft  black  curls;  but  never  very 
strong,  taking  colds  and  fevers  easily  and  some- 
times going  into  convulsions  of  terror  at  his 
father's  violence.  So  Andriana  was  glad  the 
child  should  have  this  quiet  sleep  out  there  under 
the  olives. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  195 

An  hour  later  she  was  returning  along  the 
Monastery  Road,  the  boy  held  in  her  arms,  wide 
awake  now  and  chattering.  He  had  been  run- 
ning along,  chasing  stray  kids  and  gathering 
sprigs  of  thyme  for  "Manitsa's  oven,"  he  said; 
but  where  the  low  stone  wall  had  crumbled 
away  over  the  cliffs  she  had  picked  him  up, 
fearful  of  a  false  step. 

.  It  was  about  an  hour  before  sunset,  and  long 
shimmering  bands  of  transparent  green  came 
slowly  stealing  over  the  opaque  blue  of  the  bay. 
The  gulls  wheeled  and  circled  over  the  surface 
of  the  water  with  harsh  cries  and  sudden  flashes 
of  white  wings.  A  peasant  woman  in  her  rough 
frieze  coat,  her  back  bent  under  a  load  of  thyme, 
passed  her,  and  wished  her  good-evening.  She 
was  a  stranger  to  Andriana. 

"Are  you  from  these  parts?  "  the  latter  asked. 

"No;  from  Damala;  but  I  brought  my  child 
in  to  Poros  two  days  ago  to  show  her  to  the  doc- 
tor, and  we  return  to-morrow.  To-night  I  am 
bringing  some  thyme  down  from  the  hills  for 
my  cousin  where  we  stay  and  who  keeps  the 
girl  while  I  am  away." 

"Was  it  fevers?"  inquired  Andriana,  inter- 
ested. 

"Yes,  for  months  now.  She  is  as  yellow  as  a 
Good-Friday  candle,  poor  little  maid."  • 


196       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND' 

"This  little  one  has  had  fevers  also."  Andri- 
ana  covered  Yannaki's  legs  in  the  shawl  as  she 
spoke.  "But  I  give  him  quinine  and  he  is 
better." 

*  "May  the  Holy  Virgin  keep  him  so."  And 
the  woman  smiled  at  the  little  face  that  gazed 
at  her  open-eyed.  "He  is  like  you,"  she  added, 
wishing  to  please. 

And  Andriana,  proud  and  happy  at  the  mis- 
take, did  not  set  her  right. 

"Ah,  but  you  are  well  off  here  in  the  island," 
continued  the  stranger;  "what  life  do  you  think 
it  is  for  us  poor  mothers  at  the  village  over 
there?  To  think  no  doctor  can  be  found  to  come 
like  a  good  Christian  and  do  his  work  with  us, 
but  we  must  take  our  poor  children  in  our  arms, 
burning  with  fever,  three  hours'  walk  through 
the  sun-blaze,  for  the  doctor  to  see  them  just 
once.  As  for  quinine,  what  they  sell  down  at 
Damala  is  half  flour,  and  they  make  us  pay  as 
though  every  grain  were  of  gold." 

"Have  you  other  children?" 

"One  big  boy,  and  a  little  one  who  just 
walks." 

"May  they  live  for  you,"  said  Andriana. 

"Thank  you.  I  had  another  boy,  the  first, 
but  he  quarreled  with  his  father  one  day  and 
in  an  evil  hour  went  off  with  the  sponge  divers. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  197 

Six  months  after,  he  returned  with  his  legs  para- 
lyzed and  useless:  you  know  how  it  is;  and  little 
by  little  all  his  body  was  taken  the  same  way, 
till  only  the  head  and  one  hand  remained  free. 
In  a  year  he  died.  Just  twenty  he  was,  and  a 
fine  lad.  But  I  was  glad  when  he  died  —  yes, 
glad.  Is  it  a  life  to  lead?  If  only  my  Yoryi  does 
not  go  the  same  way !  His  father  beats  him  too 
much,  and  he  has  threatened  more  than  once 
to  run  away.  And  those  sponge  captains,  the 
dogs,  are  always  prowling  about  to  tempt  the 
likely  lads  with  their  money  and  their  fine 
promises." 

"They  are  bad  men,"  Andriana  agreed,  "with 
no  heart  for  the  poor  boys  whom  they  cripple 
and  the  mothers  who  have  to  see  such  things. 
Is  your  man  a  hard  one,  then?" 

"Eh,"  sighed  the  woman,  "can  you  expect  a 
woman's  patience  from  a  man?  And  mine  is  not 
a  bad  one  when  things  go  well.  I  know  what 
troubles  the  poor  souls  have.  What  are  they  to 
do,  —  where  can  they  turn  for  help  when  times 
are  bad?  Have  we  poor  people  any  ready 
money  to  live  on?  And  who  can  fight  against 
God?  When  the  south  wind  spoils  the  olives, 
or  when  for  our  sins  cold  comes  in  April  and 
burns  up  the  grapes  at  their  bloom,  then  our 
men  get  wild  and  curse  us  and  beat  the  children 


198       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

for  nothing.  Eh,  well,  poverty  begets  hard 
words.  Who  does  not  know  that?" 

Andriana  sighed,  but  said  nothing.  Then, 
after  a  pause,  "I  must  get  home,  it  is  late. 
Good-night,  Kyra,  and  keep  up  your  courage; 
your  daughter  will  soon  be  quite  well." 

"May  it  go  from  your  lips  to  God's  ear," 
answered  the  woman  gratefully;  "good-night 
to  you." 

Andoni  had  been  at  home  some  time  when 
Andriana  arrived  with  the  child.  Work,  it 
seems,  was  slack  that  day,  and  finding  the  house 
empty  he  had  had  time  and  opportunity  to 
work  himself  into  a  more  than  usually  bad  tem- 
per. He  said  nothing,  however,  while  Andriana 
busied  herself  about  the  room  and  prepared  the 
supper;  only  sat  out  on  the  little  balcony, 
smoothing  his  beard  with  his  limp  white  hand. 
But  after  he  had  finished  eating,  just  as  she  was 
carrying  the  child  into  the  inner  room  for  the 
night,  he  burst  into  a  storm  of  violent  abuse. 
Where  had  she  been  gadding  about?  Honest 
women  kept  indoors,  and  so  should  she,  or  he 
would  flay  the  skin  off  her  if  she  showed  her  ugly 
face  across  the  threshold  again. 

Andriana  looked  at  him  for  a  moment;  at  the 
scowling  brow,  and  the  mouthing  lips  that  were 


THE  STEPMOTHER  199 

too  red  in  a  face  that  was  too  pale,  and  then 
passed  into  the  other  room  without  a  word.  He 
followed  her,  kicking  in  the  door  furiously. 

Marika  crouched  behind  the  low  bed,  and 
Yannaki  began  to  whimper  in  Andriana's  arms. 
She  bent  over  him. 

"Hush,  my  little  bird,  no  one  shall  hurt  you." 

"Stop  talking  to  the  child  and  answer  when 
I  speak,"  cried  her  husband  savagely.  "Where 
did  you  go?" 

"Out  with  the  little  one." 

"But  where  out?" 

"To  the  olive  grove  off  the  Monastery  Road." 

"Likely  story,  you  went  so  far.  I  tell  you  I 
will  not  have  my  child  taken  out  as  an  excuse  or 
a  shield.  You  went  on  some  filthy  business  of 
your  own,  and  the  child  comes  in  convenient." 

"That  is  a  lie." 

"Silence!"  Andoni  shouted. 

"I  will  not  be  silent  when  I  have  something 
to  say,  and  you  know  it.  The  child  is  often  ill, 
the  fever  returns  every  week  now.  He  requires 
more  fresh  air  and  quiet  than  he  can  get  in  the 
house,  and  he  shall  have  it." 

"You  make  your  reckoning  without  the  land- 
lord. The  child  will  be  all  right  if  you  leave  him 
alone.  Fresh  air!  —  rubbish!  Those  are  town 
notions.  When  he  is  older  he  shall  come  out 


200       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

with  me.  You  will  stay  in  and  look  after  your 
house  a  little  better,  do  you  hear?" 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  before  she  an- 
swered. "I  hear,  but  when  it  is  necessary  I  shall 
take  him  out  all  the  same." 

In  two  strides  he  was  up  to  her  and  was  shak- 
ing her  violently,  furious  at  this  unexpected 
opposition.  The  terrified  child  in  her  arms 
screamed  loudly,  and  was  roughly  flung  upon 
the  bed  by  his  father. 

"Ah,  you  will  take  him  out  all  the  same,  will 
you,  you  filthy  slut?"  And  as  he  spoke  he 
struck  her  repeatedly  on  the  head  with  his 
closed  fist. 

Andriana  had  been  forced  on  to  her  knees, 
and  her  black  hair,  escaping  from  the  kerchief, 
fell  over  her  face. 

"Yes,  I  will,"  she  repeated  wildly;  "half  the 
times  you  will  not  know  it,  and  when  you  do, 
you  can  only  beat  me  when  I  get  back.  The 
child  will  have  been  out  all  the  same." 

He  let  go  his  hold  of  her  suddenly,  so  that  she 
fell  back  across  an  old  chest  and  lay  there  look- 
ing up  at  him  defiantly. 

"So  that  is  what  you  will  do,  is  it?  Only,  you 
see,"  —  and  his  voice  became  dangerously  mild, 
—  "I  am  afraid  so  much  outing  with  the  child 
and  the  care  of  the  house  all  together  may  be  too 


THE  STEPMOTHER  201 

tiring  for  you,  so  that  if  I  hear  you  have  been 
out  again  it  will  be  better  I  should  send  the  boy 
to  Patras.  I  have  a  sister  there  who  will  take 
him  in  and  bring  him  up.  It  is  a  very  healthy 
town,  you  know,  Patras;  there  are  no  fevers 
there.  So  if  you  prefer  this?  Why  not?  It  will  be 
less  noise  in  the  house,  too,  and  one  less  to  feed." 

Andriana  rose  to  her  feet,  shivering.  "You 
cannot  —  you  cannot." 

"And  why  cannot  I,  pray?  Is  not  the  child 
mine  to  do  as  I  will  with?  As  for  the  neighbors,  I 
have  but  to  say  the  child  was  a  new  toy  at  first, 
but  now  that  you  have  wearied  of  him.  You  are 
only  a  stepmother  after  all;  they  will  find  it 
quite  natural.  Well,"  —  as  she  remained  gazing 
at  him  with  wide-open  eyes,  —  "well,"  and  he 
thrust  his  pale  face  close  to  hers,  "cannot  I  do 
as  I  like?  Cannot  I  send  him  anywhere  I 
choose?  Is  there  anything  on  earth  to  prevent 
me?" 

A  wave  of  terror  passed  over  her  face.  Her 
fingers  worked  at  her  apron.  "No,"  she  said  very 
slowly,  "no." 

He  laughed,  —  a  loud,  cackling,  discordant, 
triumphant  laugh.  "Then  see  that  you  do  as  I 
tell  you,  or  he  shall  go  before  you  can  say 
'Amen.'" 

In  grim  silence  he  took  off  his  clothes,  shook 


202       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

them,  folded  them  carefully,  and  lay  down  on 
the  bed  beside  the  boy,  throwing  one  arm  osten- 
tatiously round  him  as  though  to  emphasize  his 
proprietorship. 

There  is  no  privacy  for  the  poor,  even  for  tears. 
Andriana  laid  herself  down  on  the  floor  mattress 
beside  Marika,  and  stuffed  the  coarse  sheet  be- 
tween her  teeth  to  break  the  violence  of  her 
sobs. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  the  little  girl  touched 
her  shoulder.  "He  is  snoring,"  she  said;  "you 
can  cry  now,  Mana,  if  you  like."  It  was  dark; 
Andriana  could  not  see  the  child's  face,  but  she 
took  fast  hold  of  her  hand.  "Sleep,  sleep;  you 
are  a  good  girl." 

Towards  dawn,  she  fell  asleep  herself. 

The  next  day  she  went  about  the  house  in  a 
dazed,  listless  fashion.  Her  head  ached  from 
the  blows  she  had  received,  but  she  would  not 
have  minded  that,  if  only  all  interest  had  not 
seemed  gone  out  of  her  work.  What  need  now, 
or  ever,  to  hurry  to  get  it  done  early,  since  the 
time  so  gained  could  be  of  no  good  to  the  child. 

She  thought  of  all  she  must  give  up,  and  her 
heart  turned  sick.  No  more  long  sunny  after- 
noons under  the  pines,  knitting  stockings  while 
the  boy  rolled  over  and  over  in  the  soft  pine 
needles  beside  her,  no  more  strolls  along  the 


THE  STEPMOTHER  20S 

shore  beyond  the  Naval  School  down  to  Barba 
Nicola's  little  coffee-house,  where  Yannaki 
always  stopped  to  stroke  the  white  cat  or  her 
new  little  kittens.  No  more  errands  to  carry 
fresh  eggs  to  the  red  house  on  the  hill,  where  the 
little  ladies  would  make  much  of  Yannaki,  carry 
him  about,  feed  him  with  cakes,  making  An- 
driana  promise  never  to  cut  off  his  curls  till  he 
was  quite  a  big  boy.  No  more  rides  for  Yannaki 
on  old  Barba  Stathi's  donkey  when  they  met 
master  and  beast  returning  laden  from  the  hills. 
Even  in  the  cold  rainy  days  of  late  autumn  no 
more  runs  across  to  Kyra  Sophoula's  little 
house,  with  Yannaki  so  well  wrapped  up  that 
only  his  black  curls  and  round  black  eyes 
showed  above  the  old  red  shawl.  No  more  feasts 
of  koulouria  and  dry  figs  that  Kyra  Sophoula 
always  kept  for  him.  No  more  wonderful  boats 
carved  out  of  vegetable  marrows  by  Metro,  the 
one  who  afterwards  became  a  schoolmaster. 
No  more  long  quiet  hours  of  play  for  the  child 
on  the  covered  terrace  while  the  two  women 
talked  or  sewed. 

All  this  was  over  and  past.  Any  disagreeable 
consequences  to  herself,  Andriana  would  have 
quietly  put  aside;  but  Andoni  had  been  clever 
enough  to  use  the  one  threat  which  most  effect- 
ually prevented  her  from  stirring  out  of  the 


204       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

house  with  the  child,  except  as  far  as  the  foun- 
tain for  water.  Even  when  oil  or  flour  was 
needed,  she  would  send  Marika  for  it  after 
school  hours. 

Andoni  took  to  returning  to  the  house  at  un- 
expected moments,  between  an  odd  job  and  a 
long  rest  at  Sotiro's,  or  even  between  two  rests, 
to  make  sure  that  his  orders  were  obeyed.  But 
he  never  found  her  absent  with  the  child.  He 
had  frightened  her  too  badly. 

The  days  went  by,  and  the  weeks.  Andriana 
worked  harder  than  ever,  and  talked  less. 
The  house  they  lived  in  was  situated  in  one  of 
the  narrowest  of  the  little  steep  streets  of  the 
island,  far  from  the  sea.  Its  courtyard  was  sur- 
rounded by  bare  walls,  and  under  the  windows 
the  refuse  heaps  of  the  neighbors  rotted  quietly 
in  the  sun.  The  child,  deprived  of  the  pine 
breezes  and  the  sea  air,  wasted  and  got  visibly 
thinner  week  by  week.  Andriana  broke  through 
her  usual  silence  to  call  his  father's  attention  to 
his  condition  fiercely  once  or  twice,  but  he  only 
laughed  or  turned  on  her  with  a  curse,  according 
to  the  humor  of  the  moment.  Paternity  had 
been  simply  an  accident  of  nature  with  him, 
and  in  this  country  where  the  tie  of  blood  is  so 
powerful  even  to  the  third  and  fourth  degree, 


THE  STEPMOTHER  205 

he  only  seemed  relieved  when  the  child  grew 
less  and  less  noisy. 

One  evening  Andriana  appeared  alone  at  the 
fountain. 

"And  the  little  one?"  asked  Kyra  Sophoula; 
"how  fares  he?" 

"Ah,  Kyra  Sophoula!  all  day  and  yesterday 
too  he  had  fever,  even  in  the  early  morning. 
Quinine  seems  to  do  him  no  good  any  more. 
There  is  also  a  sore  on  his  little  leg  that  runs. 
I  have  tried  pounded  rice  with  honey,  and  even 
a  plaster  of  cow  dung,  but  it  will  not  heal." 

"Have  you  shown  it  to  the  doctor?" 

"His  father  will  not  let  me  bring  the  doctor. 
On  my  knees  I  have  begged  him,  and  he  will  not. 
I  cannot  understand  it;  I  cannot.  Is  not  the 
child  his  own  blood  after  all?  Does  not  his  heart 
ache  for  him?  Help  me,  Kyra  Sophoula,  you 
are  a  wise  woman  and  you  know  men  well.  Tell 
me  what  I  can  do  to  rouse  his  interest." 

"How  can  you  rouse  what  never  existed,  my 
poor  one?  It  is  as  though  you  went  to  an  empty 
bed  and  strove  to  awaken  the  sleeper  who  was 
not  there." 

Nevertheless  the  next  morning,  when  the 
child  awoke  hot  and  heavy-eyed,  and  pushed 
away  his  food  with  fretful  cries,  Andriana  made 
another  attempt. 


206       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"Andoni,"  she  said,  as  her  husband  was 
combing  out  his  beard  before  leaving  the  house, 
"  I  must  fetch  the  doctor  for  the  boy  to-day;  it  is 
necessary." 

"Go  to  the  devil  with  your  doctors,"  shouted 
Andoni  furiously;  "how  many  times  must  I 
repeat  a  thing  before  your  thick  head  will  take 
it  in !  When  I  say  no,  it  is  finished.  You  would 
have  a  strange  man  in  the  house  to  talk  sweet 
words  with;  that  is  what  you  want." 

"That  is  evil  talk,"  said  Andriana  quietly; 
"let  me  speak.  You  would  not  have  the  doctor 
for  Marika  last  summer,  and  the  girl  was  very 
long  getting  well;  now  I  wish  him  to  come  for 
the  little  one.  He  has  fever  every  day,  and  I 
showed  you  yesterday  the  wound  in  his  leg,  how 
it  runs." 

He  turned  on  her  with  a  curse.  "I  am  the 
master  here,  and,  once  for  all,  no  doctor  shall 
put  his  foot  in  my  house.  If  you  bring  one  here 
with  his  new-fangled  notions,  and  his  medicines 
that  cost  good  money,  I  will  smash  his  face  for 
him,  and  you  may  know  it.  The  child  ails 
nothing.  Some  one  has  cast  the  evil  eye  on  him, 
and  the  small  sore  has  become  a  large  one.  Get 
some  old  woman  to  make  an  ointment  for  it,  or  a 
cataplasm  of  healing  leaves.  Women  are  all 
fools,  and  a  torture  sent  to  us  for  our  sins,  but 


THE  STEPMOTHER  207 

for  a  small  matter  like  this,  an  old  woman's 
medicine  is  all  that  is  needed.  When  you  go  to 
the  fountain,  bring  Kyra  Marina  back  with  you 
to  see  the  child.  She  knows  many  cures." 

"I  shall  not  go  to  the  fountain  to-day,  and  if 
I  did  twenty  times  over,  I  would  not  bring  that 
old  shrew  near  the  child.  She  is  a  wicked 
woman." 

"Wicked,  is  she?"  Andoni  tipped  up  the 
earthen  pitcher  leisurely,  and  took  a  long  drink 
of  water,  wiping  the  drops  carefully  off  his 
beard  afterwards.  "Wicked,  eh?  You  are  such 
a  saint,  of  course  you  cannot  condescend  to  her. 
Well,  I  go.  If  you  will  not  hear  reason,  look 
after  the  child  yourself.  And  should  he  get 
worse,  the  sin  will  be  yours,  not  mine.  But  a 
doctor  in  my  house  —  to  play  the  master  —  to 
say,  'This  you  must  do,  and  this  you  may  not 
do,'  —  never" 

Andriana  bit  her  lower  lip.  "I  have  a  few 
lepta  left  from  my  spinning;  you  will  have  no 
medicine  to  pay  for." 

"That  is  enough  words.  I  have  said  no,  and 
I  mean  no.  It  is  finished." 

Then,  as  she  kept  silence,  he  asked  furi- 
ously, swinging  the  door  in  his  hand,  "Do  you 
hear?" 

"I  hear." 


208       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"Then  mind  you  remember."  And  he  banged 
the  door  loudly  behind  him. 

The  child,  startled  out  of  a  fitful  sleep,  cried 
pitifully  from  the  inner  room.  Andriana  was 
beside  him  in  a  moment,  patting  and  soothing 
him. 

"Sleep,  my  golden  one.  Sleep,  my  little  bird. 
To-morrow  you  will  get  up  well  and  go  out  to 
play.  Sleep,  my  little  heart." 

Then  she  tore  up  one  of  the  few  remaining 
linen  handkerchiefs,  which  had  been  given  to 
her  as  a  New  Year's  gift  in  Athens,  to  make  a 
fresh  bandage  for  the  sore  leg. 

"Nevertheless,"  she  whispered  as  she  drew 
the  old  red  shawl  over  the  child,  "the  doctor 
shall  see  him." 

But  that  evening  and  the  next  day,  and  the 
next  after  that,  he  seemed  better,  and  she  waited. 
The  third  night,  however,  the  child  could  not 
rest.  Andoni  twisted  and  turned  on  his  bed, 
cursing  his  wife,  and  threatening  to  get  up  and 
throw  the  pitcher  of  water  over  both  of  them  if 
she  could  not  succeed  in  stopping  the  child's 
cries.  At  last  she  lifted  the  boy  up,  wrapped 
him  in  the  old  shawl,  and  carried  him  into  the 
dark  outer  room,  where  she  walked  up  and 
down,  holding  him  close  to  her  and  trying  to 
soothe  him.  Once  she  threw  the  wrap  aside,  for 


THE  STEPMOTHER  209 

the  sore  leg  was  so  hot  that  she  felt  the  heat  on 
her  bare  arms  through  the  thickness  of  the  wool. 
But  soon  came  the  little  fretful  wail:  — 

"Oh,  Manitsa,  the  shawl;  I  want  my  red 
shawl,  Manitsa." 

And  she  picked  it  up  again.  Indeed,  it  seemed 
to  be  only  the  leg  that  burned,  for  the  boy  shiv- 
ered continually. 

Once  he  said,  "When  Babba  wakes  up,  will 
he  take  my  red  shawl  away?" 

And  she  answered  under  her  breath,  "No, 
my  little  bird,  he  shall  not." 

He  held  one  of  the  folds  close  to  him  in  a  thin 
hot  little  hand  and  closed  his  eyes,  reassured; 
but  more  than  once  when  the  grasp  relaxed  he 
would  fancy  he  had  lost  it  and  cry  out  in  fear, 
"My  shawl,  Manitsa;  my  red  shawl." 

"It  is  here,  my  little  golden  heart,  my  soul, 
it  is  here.  See,  I  fold  it  round  warmly  —  so. 
Now,  sleep,  sleep  that  you  may  awake  well  to- 
morrow. Sleep,  my  little  bird.  Lie  still  and 
sleep." 

He  slept  at  last,  a  heavy  sleep,  but  when  the 
morning  came  and  he  awoke  he  did  not  know 
Andriana,  and  his  moans  were  such  that  Andoni 
made  haste  to  leave  the  house  to  be  out  of 
hearing. 

Andriana  left  the  child  for  a  few  moments  to 


210       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

the  care  of  Marika  and  ran  half  distracted  to  her 
old  Aunt  Phrosyni's  house  at  the  end  of  the 
street.  It  had  rained  in  the  night  and  the  fresh 
sweet  odor  of  damp  earth  was  in  the  air,  but 
Andriana  only  knew  that  the  stones  were  wet 
and  slippery  and  that  she  could  not  run  as  fast 
as  she  wished  up  the  steep  incline.  The  house, 
blue-washed  and  green-shuttered,  stood  at  the 
top  of  the  slope  near  the  church,  and  a  fat  old 
woman  at  the  window  was  watering  pink  carna- 
tions planted  in  a  battered  old  petroleum  tin. 
Andriana  caught  her  hand,  and  the  water  from 
the  pitcher  spattered  all  over  her. 

"Aunt,"  she  cried,  without  stopping  to  wipe 
her  face,  "save  me!  The  child,  Yannaki,  awoke 
worse  just  now,  all  his  little  body  is  one  fire,  and 
he  talks  wild  words.  Come  with  me  quickly, 
now,  and  bring  some  money  with  you,  aunt,  for 
all  I  had  is  taken,  and  may  you  live  to  enjoy 
your  own  children.  Bring  some,  and  then  you 
can  stay  with  the  child  while  I  run  for  the  doc- 
tor and  for  medicines;  my  man  can  do  what  he 
likes  to  me  afterwards." 

The  old  woman  came  out  into  the  street  at 
once. 

"I  will  come,  my  daughter,  yes;  but  what 
else  can  I  do  for  you?  If  a  few  lepta  remain  they 
must  be  kept  to  pay  the  men  for  the  digging  of 


THE  STEPMOTHER  £11 

the  vine,  or  else  what  will  happen  to  us  when  the 
vintage  comes?" 

Andriana  had  already  turned  to  retrace  her 
steps,  muttering,  "Then  the  doctor  must  come 
for  the  good  of  his  soul." 

Her  aunt  followed  as  fast  as  her  bulk  would 
allow,  talking  as  she  went.  "What  help  will  the 
doctor  be,  my  poor  one?  Do  you  think  they 
know  so  much,  these  doctors?  And  this  one 
here  such  a  boy,  his  mustache  has  scarce  dark- 
ened his  lip.  My  daughter-in-law  would  bring 
him  last  winter  for  the  girl  Anneza,  who  was 
thin  and  coughed  all  night.  We  told  him  the 
evil  eye  had  been  cast  on  the  child  as  we  all 
knew,  for  ever  since  the  strange  lady  who  came 
in  the  steamer  from  Piraeus  admired  her  lovely 
color,  she  had  never  seen  a  good  day.  But  he, 
the  doctor,  laughed  out  loud,  the  young  fool, 
and  told  her  mother  it  was  more  likely  the  maid 
had  taken  cold  the  day  she  brought  down  the 
branches  from  the  hills  when  the  north  wind 
blew  so  hard.  The  eve  of  St.  John's  it  was,  I 
remember,  as  the  wood  was  wanted  to  bake  the 
kourambiedes  for  Yanni's  name-day.  As  though 
the  doctor,  with  all  his  learning,  could  know 
more  about  the  girl  than  her  own  mother. 
Bah!  what  can  the  doctor  do  for  you?" 

Two  hours  later,  when  the  young  doctor  stood 


212       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

in  the  crowded  room,  bending  over  the  moaning 
little  figure  and  looking  at  the  purple  swollen 
limb,  he  repeated  the  same  words. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  poor  woman? 
Three,  even  two  days  ago,  perhaps  I  might  have 
done  something,  but  now — "  Then  to  Kyra 
Sophoula  and  the  old  aunt  he  added,  "It  will  be 
over  soon;  the  child  has  death  in  his  throat 
already.  Keep  the  room  empty  if  you  can,  and 
give  him  air.  He  will  die  easier  so." 

But  none  of  the  neighbors  would  move.  To 
Kyra  Sophoula's  entreaties  they  returned  indig- 
nant answers.  Had  they  the  heart  to  leave  poor 
Andriana  alone  in  her  trouble?  Or  did  Kyra 
Sophoula  imagine  she  was  the  only  one  who 
knew  about  sickness?  After  all,  were  doctors 
gods,  to  be  never  wrong?  This  neighbor  knew 
of  a  remedy  which  had  worked  miracles,  and 
the  other  of  an  ointment  that  had  saved  her 
own  brother  when  he  had  been  in  a  far  worse 
state  than  the  child.  So  they  stayed  and  filled 
the  small  white  plastered  room,  and  blocked  up 
the  narrow  windows,  and  whispered,  and  went 
in  and  out,  fetching  this  or  that,  and  pounded 
strange-smelling  substances  and  concocted  va- 
rious plasters  and  ointments,  and  as  a  last 
resource  burned  incense  before  the  icon  of  the 
Holy  Virgin. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  213 

Andriana  let  them  try  everything,  but  towards 
sunset  they  lost  hope. 

Andoni,  when  he  appeared,  grumbled  at  a 
pack  of  women  filling  his  house,  declared  the 
child  was  no  worse  than  it  had  been  all  these 
days,  and  when  night  came  swore  at  his  wife 
for  not  carrying  his  mattress  away  from  the 
inner  room  down  to  the  lower  floor,  where  he 
kept  his  lathe  and  some  old  tools,  and  where 
the  ceaseless  moan  of  the  sick  child  could  not 
reach  him. 

However,  towards  dawn  he  was  able  to  sleep 
undisturbed.  The  moaning  had  ceased. 

The  next  day,  after  Kyra  Sophoula  and  Kyra 
Phrosyni  had  done  all  that  was  needful,  the 
neighbors  returned  in  even  greater  numbers 
than  before.  No  one  ever  willingly  missed  a 
funeral  in  Poros. 

The  windows  of  the  room  were  darkened  by 
squares  of  thin  black  cloth  pinned  across  them, 
and  a  loose  piece  of  the  same  material  covered 
the  only  existing  sofa.  The  little  white  coffin 
rested  open  on  two  straw  chairs.  Three  yellow 
candles,  in  tall  iron  candlesticks  brought  from 
the  church,  stood,  two  at  the  head  and  one  at 
the  foot,  the  flame  alternately  flaring  and  flick- 
ering and  throwing  dark  shadows  over  the  little 


214       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

white  face  with  the  sunken  eyes.  A  slender 
wreath  of  lemon  blossom  was  twisted  in  the 
black  curls,  and  the  tiny  hands  were  crossed  and 
tied  together  with  a  white  ribbon.  Sprigs  of 
sweet  basil  and  a  few  carnations  were  strewn  all 
over  the  coffin;  also  sugared  almonds  such  as 
are  used  for  weddings,  in  token  that  the  boy 
was  now  a  little  bridegroom  of  the  church. 

Andoni,  not  daring  in  common  decency  to 
absent  himself,  stood  awkwardly  at  one  side  of 
the  coffin,  unconsciously  smoothing  and  strok- 
ing his  beard. 

As  for  Andriana,  her  first  stunned  stupor  had 
after  many  hours  given  way  to  the  violent  grief 
of  the  poor,  which  is  scarcely  ever  silent  or 
speechless,  and  yet  is  none  the  less  sincere  for 
the  outpouring  of  words  that  would  never  come 
at  a  calmer  moment.  She  knelt  at  the  other  side 
of  the  coffin,  her  arms  stretched  over  it,  and  her 
face  sometimes  hidden  between  them  and  some- 
times thrown  back.  It  was  entirely  disfigured 
by  long  weeping  and  almost  unrecognizable. 
The  features  were  swollen  and  the  lips  lead- 
colored  and  trembling.  The  long  moaning  sobs 
seemed  to  be  wrenched  from  the  depths  of  her 
chest,  and  the  flood  of  words  rushed  forth,  now  in 
loud  screams,  and  now  in  confused  mutterings. 

"Oh,  my  child!  my  little,  little  child!  Was  it 


THE  STEPMOTHER  215 

for  this  I  took  you  into  my  heart  and  loved  you? 
Oh,  my  God!  my  God!  why  did  this  evil  find 
me?  My  child,  my  child,  if  I  could  only  die 
also !  Oh,  my  life,  my  little  heart,  my  soul's  com- 
fort! I  want  to  lie  with  you  to  keep  you  warm 
there  where  they  will  put  you.  There  is  no  life 
for  me  now.  I  have  done  with  the  world.'* 

Here  the  uncontrollable  sobs  threatened  to 
choke  her,  and  the  woman  who  sat  nearest  rose 
and  brought  her  a  glass  of  water.  But  Andriana 
pushed  it  aside  and  burst  forth  again,  swaying 
backwards  and  forwards,  one  hand  clasping  her 
throat. 

"He  suffered  so  yesterday,  my  little  bird.  All 
day  he  suffered  and  did  not  know  me.  One 
whole  day  have  I  lost  —  one  whole  day.  Oh, 
that  day !  I  must  have  that  day.  Ah,  God  owes 
me  that  day  —  one  day  more  —  just  one  —  and 
I  will  let  him  go*  If  God  is  just,  He  must  give  me 
that  day.  He  must "  —  in  a  voice  rising  hyste- 
rically higher  and  higher,  —  "He  must  —  He 
must!  or  else"  —  with  a  wild  scream  —  "or  else 
He  is  not  a  God,  He  is  a  devil  —  yes,  a  devil!" 

A  low  murmur  of  shocked  horror  arose,  and 
Pappa  Thanassi,  the  priest,  came  forward  in 
grave  remonstrance. 

"Hush,  you  are  a  good  Christian;  do  not 
blaspheme." 


216       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

But  she  did  not  look  at  him,  nor  answer, 
only  threw  her  arms  once  more  across  the  little 
coffin,  making  it  tremble  under  her  weight.  And 
again  the  long  moans  rose  and  fell,  the  moans 
that  carry  irreparable  agonizing  loss  in  their 
sound,  which  no  other  pain  of  mind  or  body 
ever  brings  forth.  And  between  them  the  cease- 
less refrain,  "My  child!  Oh,  my  little,  little 
child!" 

There  was  a  stir  amongst  those  standing 
nearest  the  door,  and  Kyra  Sophoula  stooped  to 
whisper  to  Andriana  that  the  little  ladies  from 
the  red  house  on  the  hill  had  come  with  their 
governess  to  see  her  and  the  child;  the  little 
ladies  who  had  been  so  fond  of  the  boy.  The 
words  reached  her  brain  and  she  rose  to  greet 
them,  with  the  innate  courtesy  of  the  Greek 
peasant. 

When  they  spoke  to  her  in  hushed  tones, 
awed  at  the  signs  of  the  unfamiliar  grief  on  the 
familiar  face,  her  sobs  broke  forth  again,  but 
not  so  wildly. 

"Yes,  you  loved  him,  my  little  Yannaki,  my 
little  boy.  And  all  his  pretty  curls  —  see  —  do 
you  remember  you  told  me  when  I  brought  him 
to  your  house  to  be  sure  not  to  cut  them  off,  he 
looked  so  pretty  with  them?  —  and  I  did  not. 
But  now"  —  her  voice  broke  —  "now  the  earth 


THE  STEPMOTHER  217 

will  be  scattered  over  them!  Oh,  how  can  I 
leave  him  alone  in  the  dark;  such  a  little  one 
as  he  is!  Where  shall  I  find  him  when  my  heart 
cries  for  him?" 

Here  her  old  aunt  came  bustling  up.  It  was 
bad  for  the  little  ladies,  she  said,  to  see  such 
sights  and  to  hear  such  grief;  it  was  not  fit  for 
their  years.  So  she  hurried  them  out  after  they 
had  placed  the  few  roses  they  had  brought  over 
the  little  crossed  hands. 

When  the  moment  came  for  the  tiny  coffin 
to  be  taken  away,  one  mercy  was  granted  to 
Andriana.  She  lost  consciousness.  So  while  the 
crowd  of  mourners  filed  out  after  Pappa  Tha- 
nassi  in  his  robes,  a  few  of  the  older  women 
stayed  behind  with  her,  dabbing  her  face  and 
hands  with  vinegar  while  she  went  from  one 
long  faint  into  another. 

It  was  more  than  a  month  after  the  little 
funeral  procession  had  gone  along  the  Narrow 
Beach  to  the  white-walled  cemetery  by  the  sea, 
that  Kyra  Phrosyni  came  one  day  towards  dusk 
to  visit  Andriana. 

It  was  chilly,  and  she  found  her  crouching 
over  the  manghali,  having  just  ended  a  long 
day's  washing.  Marika  was  playing  outside 
with  other  children.  Andoni  was  out,  as  usual. 


218       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

The  only  difference  the  boy's  death  seemed  to 
have  made  to  him  was  that  he  kept  away  from 
the  house,  if  possible,  more  than  before.  He 
could  not  stand  Andriana's  face,  he  said.  Be- 
sides, who  ever  heard  of  such  a  fuss  made  and 
the  child  not  even  her  own. 

Kyra  Phrosyni,  seated  on  a  low  stool  in  front 
of  the  manghali,  eyed  her  niece  critically,  while 
the  latter  cowered  down,  holding  her  hands  over 
the  lighted  coals.  Her  cotton  skirt  was  wet  in 
patches  where  she  had  leaned  against  the 
wooden  washing-trough,  her  fingers  were  wrin- 
kled from  the  long  hours  in  the  hot  water,  and 
her  hair  escaping  from  the  black  kerchief  fell 
about  her  face. 

"You  have  been  washing  from  the  morn- 
ing?" 

"From  dawn,  yes;  there  were  many  clothes." 

"I  am  too  old  and  too  fat  to  do  much  washing 
now;  Calliope  and  Anneza  do  it  all.  But  when  I 
did,  these  long  days  at  the  washing-trough  used 
tokill  me.  Does  not  your  waist  feel  broken  in  two?  " 

"Broken  or  not,  the  work  must  be  done." 

"And  the  girl?  Does  she  not  help?" 

"She  is  too  small." 

"Or  too  lazy,  perhaps,  being  her  father's 
child?  Eh,  but  she  is  like  him,  as  like  as  one 
rook  to  another." 


THE  STEPMOTHER  219 

"Her  face  is  like  him;  that  is  not  her  fault. 
She  is  a  good  child,  and  a  quiet  one." 

"And  where  may  Andoni  be?" 

"Do  I  know?"  —  with  an  uplifting  of  the 
bowed  shoulders. 

"He  never  tells  you?" 

"Neither  do  I  ask  him,  neither  does  he  tell 
me." 

"You  should  try  to  find  out." 

"And  wherefore  should  I?" 

"Because  it  is  not  good  for  a  man  to  feel  too 
free;  not  to  be  a  little  afraid  of  his  wife's  tongue. 
I  am  not  for  loud  words  —  Holy  Virgin,  no! 
*  Better  a  cabbage  in  peace  than  sugar  with 
strife,'  as  the  saying  is,  but  if  you  swallow  every- 
thing and  never  open  your  lips  he  will  go  to  the 
bad  entirely." 

"Let  him  go." 

"These  are  not  wise  words,  my  daughter,  and 
the  hour  will  come  when  you  will  repent  them. 
Your  man  needs  looking  after.  Pericli,  the  fruit 
seller  —  you  know  Pericli,  Calliope's  cousin?" 

"I  know  him." 

"Well,  he  told  me  yesterday,  and  he  counts 
his  words,  does  Pericli,  that  he  saw  Andoni  not 
two  days  ago,  standing,  after  dusk,  inside  the 
door  arch  down  near  the  marketplace,  with 
Olympia,  that  tall  girl  of  Barba  Manoli's,  the 


220       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

one  with  the  yellow  hair,  and  he  was  holding 
her  hand,  Pericli  said,  and  talking  sweet  words 
to  her!  And  Pericli  heard  that  it  was  not  the 
first  time  either." 

"I  am  sorry  for  her." 

Kyra  Phrosyni  got  up  in  offended  dignity. 
This  was  not  the  way  she  had  expected  her  news 
to  be  received. 

"Come  to  your  senses,  my  daughter,"  she 
said  at  last;  "what  will  it  profit  you  to  go  your 
own  way  in  silence  and  let  your  man  spend  all 
his  money  out  of  his  house,  and  on  strange 
women.  Now  that  he  earns  more,  you  should 
try  to  control  him  a  little  and  make  him  put 
some  aside." 

"Who  says  he  earns  more?" 

"Why,  every  one,  of  course.  Have  you  just 
awaked,  my  poor  one?  It  is  days  now  that  he 
has  paid  all  his  old  wine  score  at  Sotiro's,  and 
treats  every  one  who  sits  with  him.  Why,  on 
Sunday  he  had  a  whole  lot  of  men  drinking  to 
his  health.  They  told  me  he  gave  Sotiro  ten 
drachmas  to  pay  for  three  okes  of  retsinato 
when  he  got  up  to  go,  and  told  him  to  keep  the 
change;  it  was  too  much  trouble,  he  said,  to 
wait  for  it." 

Andriana's  eyes  changed.  "I  know  nothing 
of  all  this,  aunt.  There  has  been  no  money  in 


THE  STEPMOTHER  221 

the  house,  and  we  owe  for  oil  and  flour  since  last 
month." 

"These  are  strange  doings  then,  very  strange, 
and  if  I  were  you  I  would  make  haste  to  find  out 
what  they  mean." 

"Yes,"  said  Andriana  slowly,  "I  will." 

It  was  three  days  later  in  the  early  dawn  after 
a  stormy  night.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but  a  damp 
chilly  ah*  came  through  the  chinks  of  the  shut- 
ters. The  room  in  the  dim  light  had  a  bare, 
empty  look;  its  few  pieces  of  furniture  had  been 
pushed  back  against  the  wall.  The  boards  had 
been  freshly  scrubbed,  and  on  a  shelf  near  the 
table  was  an  untouched  loaf  and  a  small  cov- 
ered pan.  An  old  painted  wooden  chest  near 
the  door  had  been  pulled  out  of  its  place  and  the 
lid  thrown  back. 

Andoni  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  high  stool  fully 
dressed,  but  pale  and  disheveled,  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  his  fingers 
clutching  nervously  at  his  beard.  He  stared  at 
Andriana  with  bloodshot,  furious  eyes.  She 
stood  opposite  to  him,  with  her  back  to  the  wall, 
dressed  in  a  dark  woolen  dress,  a  black  kerchief 
tied  over  her  hair,  holding  in  clenched  hands  the 
old  shawl  which  had  once  been  red. 

"Suppose,"  said  her  husband,  speaking  sud- 


222       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

denly,  "that  I  were  just  to  kill  you  where  you 
stand,  to  strangle  you  with  my  two  hands  and 
have  done  once  for  all  with  your  'I  will'  and 
*I  will  not/  Have  you  thought  of  that  in  all 
your  plans?" 

"No,"  said  Andriana  quietly;  "you  would  be 
found  out,  and  that  would  be  worse  than  the 
other  thing." 

"There  is  no  other,"  he  blustered. 

"There  is.  I  have  searched  and  I  have  found. 
I  know  now  why  you  were  obliged  to  leave 
Patras  secretly  in  the  night.  And  if  only  that 
were  all !  But  I  know  also  where  the  money  came 
from  that  you  have  been  spending  lately;  now, 
these  last  weeks.  I  know  all.  And  what  I  know, 
others  can  learn  —  even  the  prefect  of  the  police 
—  if  Hike." 

His  face  grew  almost  gray. 

"A  bad  year  to  you!"  he  screamed  savagely; 
"and  who  will  listen  to  your  tales,  do  you  think?  " 

Then  as  she  stood  silent,  he  swallowed  once 
or  twice  and  lowered  his  voice.  "Come  now, 
you  are  not  a  stupid  woman,  come  to  your 
senses.  What  will  it  profit  you  to  go  away  but 
to  be  badly  spoken  of?  Come,  leave  all  this  folly 
and  stay  quietly  in  your  own  house." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  have  stayed  four 
years,"  she  said;  "I  have  risen  early,  and  gone 


THE  STEPMOTHER  223 

late  to  rest;  nor  have  I  wasted  your  money. 
I  have  worn  cotton  in  winter  and  I  have  fed 
scantily.  I  have  worked,  as  I  never  did  for 
strangers  —  worked  as  a  mule  at  the  well." 

"And  now?"  he  sneered. 

"Now,  I  cannot  do  it  any  more.  I  have  borne 
much,  for  you,  and  from  you.  Poverty,  that 
you  might  have  prevented,  hard  words,  neglect, 
curses,  even  blows.  But  shame!  no,  that  I  will 
not  bear.  Put  it  out  of  your  mind  that  I  ever 
will.  If  my  father  lived  he  would  take  me  from 
you.  So  I  will  not  sleep  another  night  in  your 
house." 

"You  will  not?"  shouted  Andoni  in  a  frenzy 
of  rage. 

"/  will  not.  I  have  borne  everything.  A  bad 
heart  I  knew  you  had;  now  that  I  find  you  are 
not  even  an  honest  man,  that  you  can  steal  from 
a  widow  and  an  orphan,  that  is  all  over.  I  am 
glad,  yes,  glad  that  the  little  one  is  gone,  that 
he  should  not  grow  up  to  know  his  father." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  man  looked  at  her 
open-mouthed,  his  arms  hanging  down  limply 
beside  him. 

Then  in  a  quieter  voice  she  continued:  "I 
have  left  the  house  clean  and  in  order,  and  food 
cooked  for  to-day.  There  is  nothing  owing  but 
the  flour  for  the  last  baking  and  three  okes  of 


224       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

oil.  You  will  find  some  one  to  look  after  you. 
For  me,  I  shall  go  —  as  far  away  as  I  can  — 
perhaps  to  Constantinople,  or  to  Alexandria. 
I  shall  tell  no  lies,  but  I  am  strong;  I  can  always 
find  work  enough  to  keep  myself  and  the  girl." 

Andoni  started  forward.  "The  girl!"  he 
gasped,  "the  girl!  you  are  mad;  is  she  yours?" 

"No,  she  is  not  mine,  but  I  must  take  her. 
Her  mother  will  thank  me  if  she  knows.  You 
will  not  care.  What  would  you  do  with  her? 
She  is  too  small  to  work  for  you,  and  would  be 
only  a  trouble." 

"Where  is  the  girl?"  he  asked  suddenly; 
"where  have  you  hidden  her?" 

"Nowhere;  she  slept  at  Kyra  Sophoula's  last 
night.  I  told  her  to  wait  for  me  there." 

"  You  told  her!"  He  strode  up  and  seized  her 
shoulder.  "Are  you  the  master?"  he  asked 
savagely,  but  his  teeth  chattered  as  he  spoke. 

She  wrenched  herself  free  with  a  sudden 
movement.  "Let  me  be,"  she  said;  "let  me  be, 
now  and  always,  and  no  harm  shall  come  to  you, 
from  me  at  least.  But  try  to  keep  me  or  the  girl 
by  force,  and  I  go  straight  to  the  prefect.  I 
swear  it  on  the  soul  of  the  little  one." 

He  pushed  his  open  palm  towards  her  with 
the  fingers  wide  apart,  than  which  there  is  no 
greater  sign  of  contempt. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  225 

"Nah!"  he  said;  "nah!  take  the  girl  and  go  to 
the  devil,  if  you  like.  I  shall  be  well  rid  of  you. 
After  all,  if  ever  I  want  the  girl  I  can  send  for 
her." 

"You  need  not;  she  will  not  come." 

Before  he  could  gather  together  his  bewil- 
dered wits  to  answer  her,  she  crossed  over  to 
the  door  and  drew  the  bolt.  She  paused  a  mo- 
ment and  looked  back  into  the  dark  room.  Then, 
with  the  old  shawl  that  had  once  been  red  hang- 
ing over  her  arm,  she  passed  out,  closing  the 
door  behind  her. 

Andoni  never  saw  her  again. 


VI 

THE  ONLY   SON  OF   HIS  MOTHER 

When  desire  was  a  longing,  and  absence  a  thorn,  and  rejoicing  a 
word  without  reason. 

SWINBURNE. 

"DEAD !  Kyr  Apostoli  dead ! " 

Barba  Manoli  opened  his  eyes  wide  and  pushed 
out  his  lips.  "When?  What  are  you  telling, 
neighbor?" 

"It  is  the  truth.  Life  to  you,  Barba  Manoli." 

"When  did  he  die?  Where  did  you  hear  it?" 

"Those  who  came  in  the  steamer  this  morning 
from  Hydra  told  us.  He  died  there  last  Friday 
evening.  The  priest  was  just  finishing  the  'Salu- 
tations' when  they  called  him." 

"It  must  have  been  a  stroke,"  said  Barba 
Manoli,  gathering  his  brows  together.  "Kyr 
Apostoli  was  a  strong  man  and  a  healthy  one, 
when  I  knew  him,  but  they  tell  me  he  had  grown 
over-fat  of  late.  It  must  have  been  a  stroke, 
surely;  he  was  never  ill  a  day  that  I  can  re- 
member." 

The  men  were  standing  in  the  little  market- 
place, under  the  shade  of  an  old  eucalyptus  tree 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    227 

with  a  deep  stone  trough  built  round  it.  Close 
by  them  two  horses  and  some  kids  were  tied  to 
the  weather-stained  marble  pillar,  which  is  over 
the  fountain.  Tumble-down  dark  shops  and 
sheds  formed  the  three  sides  of  the  square,  and 
the  sea  was  on  the  fourth. 

Mastro  Petro,  the  hunchback  shoemaker,  sat 
down  on  an  upturned  pannier  and  stroked  his 
thin  legs  contemplatively. 

"Never  ill!"  he  repeated;  "never  ill!  that  is 
well  —  but  his  years !  Do  you  not  count  them?  " 

"Why,"  said  Barba  Manoli,  "his  brother 
Yoryi,  who  died,  was  younger  than  I  am.  Was 
Apostoli  much  older  than  Yoryi?" 

"He  might  have  been  his  father,"  answered 
the  little  shoemaker.  "When  he  took  Yoryi's 
boy  Andriko  away  from  here,  to  live  with  him 
in  Hydra,  he  must  have  been  close  on  seventy, 
and  that  is  nigh  seven  years  ago." 

"True,  there  is  Andriko,  his  nephew.  A  man 
he  must  be  by  now.  Well,  he  will  have  a  good 
bit  of  money  from  his  uncle.  He  had  his  own, 
had  Kyr  Apostoli;  he  had  his  own." 

"They  say  he  left  Andriko  nothing,  Barba 
Manoli." 

"Who  says  it?  Impossible!  He  always  said 
everything  was  to  be  the  boy's.  Why,  whatever 
the  mother  may  have  done,  Kyr  Apostoli  would 


228        TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

never  have  got  Andriko  away  from  her  if  he  had 
not  promised  to  let  him  be  as  his  son  and  inherit 
all  he  had.  Bah!  do  not  tell  me  such  things." 

Barba  Manoli's  face  grew  purple  with  excite- 
ment, his  white  mustache  worked  nervously  up 
and  down,  and  his  baggy  blue  breeches  shook  in 
all  their  many  folds  as  he  stamped  his  foot  to 
emphasize  his  words. 

"Nevertheless  it  is  as  I  tell  you,"  persisted 
the  hunchback.  "He  leaves  the  boy  nothing; 
all  the  money  and  the  house  go  to  some  one  else. 
A  woman,  I  think  they  said  it  was.  If  you  do 
not  believe  me,  ask  Kyra  Sophoula,  who  knows 
all  about  it.  Capetan  Leftheri  was  telling  her 
everything  this  morning." 

Then  in  a  second  he  added:  "Speak  of  the 
song  and  you  see  the  bird!  There  is  Kyra 
Sophoula  herself.  Wait,  I  will  call  her.  Kyra 
Sophoula!"  raising  a  shrill,  cracked  voice,  — 
"Kyra  Sophoula!  come  here  for  a  minute."  And 
he  beckoned  to  a  thin  little  old  woman,  who, 
emerging  from  a  dark  arch  at  the  back  of  the 
marketplace,  was  crossing  the  farther  end,  her 
red  earthen  pitcher  under  her  arm.  Then,  as 
she  approached,  "Tell  Barba  Manoli,  here, 
what  you  heard  about  Kyr  Apostoli,  Yannoula's 
brother-in-law.  Is  it  not  true  that  he  leaves 
nothing  to  Andriko  after  all  his  promises?  " 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    229 

"Not  one  lepton,"  answered  the  old  woman, 
setting  down  her  pitcher  on  the  edge  of  the  stone 
trough  and  crossing  her  arms;  "not  one." 
"But  how  is  this  thing  possible?'* 
"They  did  not  get  on  well  together,  the  old 
man  and  the  boy,  for  some  time  now,"  related 
Kyra  Sophoula.  "Why?  God  only  knows:  for 
Andriko  could  flatter  and  use  sweet  words  enough 
when  it  suited  him.  At  least  he  could  when  I 
knew  him.  Perhaps  he  got  tired  of  waiting,  for 
they  say  the  old  man  kept  him  very  tight.  Per- 
haps the  old  man  repented  of  his  promises,  once 
he  had  got  what  he  wanted.  Anyhow,  Capetan 
Leftheri  tells  me  that  when  Kyr  Apostoli  was 
near  his  end  they  brought  the  holy  icon  from  the 
Monastery  of  St.  Nicholas,  that  has  cured  so 
many,  and  when  they  laid  it  on  his  breast,  he 
opened  his  eyes  wide  and  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  and  cried  out,  'Bring  my  daughter-in- 
law  here/  And  of  course  she  came  running.  It 
is  that  Panayota,  you  know,  that  creature  he 
had  never  forgiven  his  son  for  marrying.  Even 
when  his  son  was  dying,  he  had  never  gone  near 
them;  and  now  he  told  her  to  fetch  the  notary, 
that  he  would  leave  everything  to  her.  She  lost 
no  time,  you  may  be  sure.  The  old  man  could 
still  put  his  name  to  the  paper  when  the  notary 
came,  but  he  died  an  hour  afterwards.  She  says 


230       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

now,  this  Panayota,  that  it  was  the  holy  icon's 
mercy  and  grace  that  made  Kyr  Apostoli  re- 
cover his  good  senses  at  the  last.  Though  it 
does  not  enter  my  old  head  how  even  a  mi- 
raculous icon  can  bring  back  what  was  never 
there!" 

"So  he  leaves  nothing  at  all  to  Andriko?" 
said  Barba  Manoli.  "  Ta  —  ta  —  ta,  who  would 
ever  have  said  it?  " 

"He  should  not  have  done  such  a  thing," 
pronounced  Mastro  Petro  decidedly;  "Andriko 
was  of  his  own  blood." 

Kyra  Sophoula  set  her  pitcher  carefully  under 
the  running  water  before  speaking. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  "he  was  of  his  own 
blood,  and  perhaps  he  was  wrong  by  the  law. 
But  I,  for  one,  am  glad.  Serve  Andriko  right. 
Does  a  boy  leave  his  poor  mother  who  has  borne 
him  and  suckled  him  and  toiled  for  him,  because 
foolish  people  speak  evil  words  of  her,  —  and  go 
off  with  the  first  stranger  who  wants  to  take 
him?" 

"A  stranger!"  exclaimed  the  hunchback. 
"What  are  you  saying,  Kyra  Sophoula?  A 
stranger?  When  it  was  his  own  uncle,  his 
father's  brother!  Besides,  how  could  the  boy 
foresee  what  happens  to-day?  He  expected 
without  fail  to  have  money  later  on;  and  that  is 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    231 

a  good  thing  always.  Also  many  people  said 
those  were  not  clean  doings  of  Yannoula's  at 
that  time.  A  woman  is  a  secret  thing.  Who 
knows  the  truth?" 

"/  know  it,"  cried  Kyra  Sophoula  angrily; 
"and  you,  Mastro  Petro,  measure  your  words 
better  if  you  ever  want  to  put  a  patch  on  a  shoe 
of  mine  again." 

"What  will  Andriko  do  now,  I  wonder,"  in- 
quired Barba  Manoli  hastily.  He  was  a  quiet 
man  and  loved  peace. 

"Do  I  know?"  said  Kyra  Sophoula  shortly, 
taking  up  her  pitcher,  out  of  whose  narrow  neck 
the  water  was  overflowing. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mastro  Petro,  in  an  apolo- 
getic tone  of  voice,  "he  may  come  back  here  to 
his  mother  now." 

"If  he  thinks  she  has  anything  to  give  him, 
perhaps  he  may,"  snapped  the  old  woman. 

"Why  will  you  think  evil?"  asked  Barba 
Manoli.  "A  man's  head  is  not  as  a  child's. 
Things  past  are  past.  It  does  not  seem  unlikely 
to  me  that  he  should  think  of  returning  to  live 
with  his  mother  now,  and  of  working  for  her." 

"The  head  may  change,"  said  Kyra  Sophoula, 
shouldering  her  pitcher,  "the  heart  never.  I 
have  known  Andriko  from  a  child,  and  never 
have  I  seen  him  think  of  aught  but  what  might 


232       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

fill  his  belly  or  tickle  his  fancy.    He  will  not 
begin  now.  —  Good-day  to  you.'* 

She  walked  off  as  she  spoke,  and  left  the  men 
looking  after  her. 

This  lad  Andriko,  of  whom  they  had  spoken, 
and  his  mother  Yannoula,  had  been  familiar 
figures  on  the  island  some  years  before. 

The  woman  had  been  left  a  widow  early. 
When  this  happened  she  had  paid  all  due  ob- 
servance to  Poros  etiquette,  sending  for  the 
professional  mourners  to  wail  over  the  deceased 
and  chant  his  virtues,  not  stirring  from  her  house 
for  the  prescribed  number  of  days,  and  covering 
all  her  furniture  in  thin  black  drapery.  Still,  as 
her  husband  had  been  distinctly  a  ne'er-do- 
well  and  not  even  a  lovable  one  of  the  kind,  she 
had  been  undeniably  better  off  after  his  death. 
His  elder  brother  Apostoli,  who  lived  in  Hydra, 
and  was  known  to  be  well  off,  had  come  to 
Poros  for  the  funeral.  He  was  a  stern,  forbid- 
ding-looking man,  of  whom  Yannoula  was  afraid, 
so  that  after  his  return  to  Hydra  there  was 
no  further  communication  between  them.  The 
poor  write  few  letters.  Also,  Kyr  Apostoli  had  a 
son  of  his  own,  and  Yannoula  did  not  expect  help 
of  any  kind  from  him.  She  was  a  quiet,  hard- 
working, self-contained  woman,  with  a  low  voice 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    233 

for  a  Poriote.  Only  this  one  child,  Andriko,  had 
been  born  to  her,  and  all  the  strength  of  her 
nature  was  centred  in  him. 

Certainly  he  was  a  lovely  boy.  He  had  gone 
back  for  his  type  to  the  ancient  days  of  the 
land,  and  had  the  broad  low  brow,  the  straight 
nose,  the  short  upper  lip,  the  rounded  chin,  and 
the  closely  curling  hair  of  the  Olympian  Hermes. 
Countless  foreign  and  barbarian  invasions  have 
blurred  the  purity  of  line  of  the  old  race.  The 
blood  has  been  mixed  and  intermixed  till  the 
classic  type  has  become  all  too  rare,  especially 
in  the  towns.  Yet  at  times,  and  oftenest  in  the 
islands,  it  is  still  possible  to  meet  in  the  flesh  the 
prototypes  of  Praxiteles  and  Myron  and  Poly- 
cletus. 

Peasants  as  a  rule  are  not  lovers  of  beauty, 
but  the  most  stolid  of  them  would  turn  to  look 
twice  at  Andriko.  When  he  was  a  little  fellow, 
the  women,  when  they  saw  him,  would  spit  on 
the  ground  to  ward  off  the  evil  eye  from  him; 
Pappa  Thanassi,  the  priest,  always  chose  him 
to  hold  the  tall  candle  at  weddings  or  at  christen- 
ings, and  even  once  a  boy  of  his  own  age  had 
given  him  a  new  bright  red  handkerchief  for 
his  own,  because,  when  he  had  tied  it  round  his 
head,  he  had  been  "so  good  to  look  at." 

He  was  a  fine  lad  too,  broad,  strong,  and 


234       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

straight  as  a  young  cypress.  He  ran  about 
bareheaded  and  barelegged  in  the  sun  and  the 
wind,  and  in  summertime  was  oftener  to  be 
found  in  the  sea  than  on  land.  He  throve  pass- 
ing well  on  his  fare  of  bread  and  olives,  with  a 
little  white  cheese  or  a  sardine  sometimes  thrown 
in  when  he  happened  to  run  an  errand  for  Kyr 
Michali,  the  grocer. 

Yannoula  toiled  early  and  late  at  any  work 
she  found  to  do.  Nothing  came  amiss  to  her, 
— field  work,  lemon-packing,  olive-gathering, 
picking  raisins  for  drying:  each  and  all  in  their 
seasons,  and  her  hand-loom  for  all  spare  days 
when  work  was  scarce.  When  she  had  earned 
enough  to  buy  a  strip  of  land  over  on  the  main- 
land with  a  few  lemon  and  olive  trees  on  it,  she 
looked  proudly  at  her  boy  as  at  a  future  landed 
proprietor.  Being  the  only  son  of  a  widow  she 
knew  also  that  he  would  be  exempt  from  service 
in  the  Navy.  He  never  lacked  anything  she 
could  possibly  get  for  him:  Christ-bread  at 
Christmas  and  New  Year,  and  red  eggs  at 
Easter  always,  whether  her  earnings  had  been 
large  or  small. 

They  lived,  the  mother  and  son,  in  a  little 
pink-washed  house  next  to  Kyra  Sophoula's, 
down  by  the  dark  arch,  beyond  the  market- 
place. A  vine  grew  over  the  rickety  wooden 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    235 

balcony,  pots  of  sweet  basil  flourished  on  the 
stone  ledges  of  the  terrace,  and  an  ancient  fig 
tree  growing  in  the  courtyard  darkened  the 
windows  when  it  was  in  full  leaf. 

It  was  on  the  terrace,  watering  her  pots  of 
sweet  basil,  that  the  English  strangers  found  her 
one  morning.  The  old  lady  and  her  son  who 
were  staying  at  the  little  hotel  near  the  Column, 
and  who  had  often  employed  Andriko  as  guide 
in  their  excursions,  had  come  to  look  at  the  place 
where  he  lived.  Mrs.  Lee  had  been  curious  to 
see  whether  the  boy  inherited  his  beauty  from 
his  mother.  But  she  was  disappointed.  Few 
would  have  glanced  a  second  time  at  the  woman 
who  came  forward  to  greet  them,  and  to  ask 
them  in  with  the  innate  courtesy  of  the  Greek 
peasant.  Her  hair  was  plainly  parted  under  her 
widow's  kerchief,  and  deep-set  eyes  looked 
quietly  out  of  the  thin,  sunburned  face. 

Conversation  between  them  presented  serious 
difficulties.  Mrs.  Lee  tried  to  tell  Yannoula 
that  she  also  was  a  widow,  and  had  this  one  son 
only.  But  there  the  likeness  between  them  cer- 
tainly ceased.  The  Englishwoman  was  tall  with 
white  hair,  her  black  dress  was  relieved  by 
touches  of  white  lace  and  the  gleam  of  a  long 
golden  chain,  which  hung  to  her  waist.  Her  son, 
Randal,  was  a  naval  officer  on  sick-leave.  They 


236       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

had  wintered  in  Athens,  and  when  after  a  long 
drought  the  dust  of  the  city  had  proved  unendur- 
able, they  had  come  away  to  the  sea  and  the 
hills  for  a  few  days.  But  the  charm  of  Poros  was 
upon  them;  the  days  had  become  weeks,  the 
weeks  were  growing  into  months,  and  they  were 
still  on  the  island.  They  had  become  familiar 
figures  there,  the  white-haired  mother  and  the 
young  man,  clean-shaven  and  sunburned,  always 
so  gay  and  bright,  laughing  at  everything,  as  the 
women  noted  with  wonder,  they  whose  boys  are 
grave  long  before  manhood. 

Mrs.  Lee  did  not  often  care  to  come  into  the 
village  itself,  finding  it  more  picturesque  and 
pleasant  in  all  ways  when  seen  at  a  distance. 
Still,  even  while  climbing  over  the  sun-baked 
rocks,  or  stumbling  over  stones  and  rubbish 
heaps  in  the  narrow  streets  to  find  Yannoula's 
house,  she  had  constantly  stopped  to  draw  Ran- 
dal's attention  to  wonderful  bits  of  Southern 
coloring.  Sometimes  it  would  be  only  the  cor- 
ner of  a  red-tiled  roof  jutting  out  against  the 
incredible  blue  of  the  sky,  or  a  white  pigeon 
preening  its  feathers  on  a  terrace  against  a  back- 
ground of  green  vines  or  of  flaming  hybiscus 
blossoms.  Farther  on  there  were  rows  of  orange- 
colored  pumpkins  drying  on  stone  ledges;  and 
at  the  end  of  every  steep  incline,  across  every 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    237 

tumble-down  balcony,  between  the  last  houses 
of  every  steep  street,  the  same  radiant  blue  sea 
and  paler  blue  hills  beyond. 

Yannoula  had  listened  in  respectful  silence 
and  not  a  little  wonder  when  her  native  island 
was  ecstatically  praised,  but  when  with  halting 
words  but  eloquent  looks  and  gestures  Mrs.  Lee 
had  begun  to  talk  of  Andriko,  of  his  looks, 
his  strength,  his  quickness,  his  daring,  then  she 
understood  well,  and  her  smiling  eyes  agreed  to 
all,  though  her  code  of  manners  compelled  her 
to  answer:  — 

"But  what  are  you  saying,  lady?  You  are 
very  good,  but  the  lad  is  as  all  the  lads  are." 

Mrs.  Lee  had  been  a  keen  lover  of  beauty  all 
her  life  long.  The  day  after  her  arrival  in  Poros 
she  had  singled  out  Andriko  from  among  a 
group  of  boys  always  standing  about  the  quay, 
and  for  very  love  of  his  perfect  Greek  type  had 
forthwith  instituted  him  their  guide  and  carrier 
in  all  their  excursions  by  land  and  by  sea.  They 
were  out  every  day,  and  nearly  all  day  long. 
Randal's  sick-leave  was  all  but  over;  he  was 
quite  strong  again  now,  and  after  a  long  separa- 
tion in  the  past,  and  with  another  looming  near 
in  the  future,  the  mother  and  son  were  trying  to 
crowd  into  the  remaining  time  as  many  open-air 
days  and  lovely  memories  as  they  could. 


238       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

Andriko,  nothing  loath,  had  been  with  them 
everywhere,  leading  the  way,  swinging  a  pro- 
vision basket  on  his  arm,  or  carrying  a  pitcher 
for  fresh  water  on  his  shoulder.  As  he  bounded 
up  the  rocky  paths  before  them,  and  they 
watched  the  freedom  of  his  movements,  and  the 
play  of  his  wonderfully  modeled  limbs,  with  their 
constant  indication  of  the  pure  physical  joy  of 
existence,  he  seemed  to  them  the  very  reincarn- 
ation of  prehistoric,  mythological  Greece.  "The 
god  Pan  in  early  youth,"  Mrs.  Lee  christened 
him;  and  when  the  provision  basket  left  in  his 
charge  would  be  found  unduly  lightened  of  part 
of  its  contents,  or  the  ready  excuses  rolled  rap- 
idly off  his  lips  to  account  for  some  delay  or 
neglected  order,  she  would  smile  indulgently. 

Randal,  man-like,  was  not  so  easily  appeased. 
"The  young  cub  wants  a  good  licking,"  he 
would  say  now  and  then. 

"No,  no,  Randal,"  his  mother  would  answer; 
"don't  be  so  terribly  British  and  nineteenth- 
century-minded!  You  really  must  not  expect 
ordinary  everyday  morality  and  humdrum  hon- 
esty from  the  god  Pan:  it  would  be  a  terrible 
anachronism ! " 

There  were  few  parts  of  Poros  and  the  main- 
land that  they  left  unexplored.  Together  they 
climbed  the  hills  and  looked  down  over  the  sea 


and  over  valleys  where  the  young  pines  grew; 
over  groves  of  gray-green  olives,  over  rich  red 
earth  crumbling  between  gray  rocks  covered 
with  ilex  and  lentisk,  over  walled-in  gardens  of 
lemons  and  mandarins,  over  ruined  chapels 
with  their  solitary  lamp  kept  ever  burning,  over 
ravines  and  dry  torrent  beds  overgrown  with 
myrtle  and  pink  oleanders;  and  above  all  was 
the  divine  blue  of  the  Grecian  sky. 

Sometimes  to  reach  the  greater  heights  old 
Barba  Stathi  was  told  to  bring  his  donkey,  and 
on  the  donkey's  back  Mrs.  Lee  would  mount 
to  the  summit  of  the  higher  hills  of  the  main- 
land, from  where  on  the  other  side  Hydra  and 
Spetzai  gleamed  white  in  the  distance.  And  in 
the  cool  of  the  afternoon  they  would  descend 
by  a  shorter  and  steeper  cut,  sure-footed  little 
Kitso  firmly  planting  his  hard  hoofs  on  the 
slippery  carpet  of  pine  needles,  and  stepping 
triumphantly  over  the  most  jagged  of  rocks. 

They  went  to  the  Devil's  Bridge,  returning 
laden  with  maidenhair  ferns;  by  Damala  and 
the  old  ruined  tower  of  Theseus.  Once,  to  please 
Yannoula,  they  went  with  her  to  her  strip  of 
land  and  admired  the  well-cared-for  trees,  — 
the  old  gray  olives,  Athena's  own  eternal  trees, 
and  the  lemon  trees  just  then  in  full  bloom. 

"Oh,  Randal,  look!  look!"  cried  Mrs.  Lee. 


240       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

coming  to  a  standstill  before  the  masses  of  fra- 
grant blossom;  "look  at  them!  smell  them! 
Look  at  that  pure  rich  white  against  the  dark 
shiny  leaves." 

Yannoula  stood  by  smiling,  well  content  that 
the  lady  should  be  pleased,  yet  wondering  a 
little  that  the  everyday  sight  of  a  lemon  tree  in 
blossom  should  cause  such  evident  delight. 

"They  are  easily  pleased,  those  strangers," 
she  said  in  the  evening  to  Kyra  Sophoula;  "do 
their  lemon  trees  not  blossom,  then,  in  their  own 
country?" 

For  the  Temple  of  Poseidon,  up  by  the  little 
spring  and  past  the  Chapel  of  St.  Stathi,  Mrs. 
Lee  would  choose  the  clearest  days,  when  from 
the  Temple  they  could  distinguish  across  the 
sea,  which  lay  below  them,  Athens  and  the 
Acropolis  in  the  far  distance. 

But  where  they  returned  oftenest  was  to  the 
Monastery.  There  they  spent  long  days,  climb- 
ing up  the  broad  shallow  steps  that  lead  up  to  it 
through  the  trees,  wandering  about  in  the  vine- 
planted  inner  court,  with  its  solitary  tall  palm 
waving  its  branches  high  above  the  red  roof. 
They  would  stand  before  the  old  tombs  along 
the  outer  wall  of  the  Chapel,  reading  with 
great  facility  the  epitaph  to  the  poor  Italian 
girl,  Arcia  Ceccoli,  so  young  to  die,  "Meno  di 


THE  INNER  COURT  OF  THE  MONASTERY 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    241 

venti  anni,"  whose  artist  father,  "genitore  in- 
consolabile,"  has  immortalized  her  face  in  his 
picture  of  the  Virgin  Mother  inside  the  Chapel, 
which,  as  the  Greek  inscription  runs,  he  painted 
for  the  Monastery  "  because  of  gratitude." 
They  deciphered  the  Greek  letters  on  the  tombs 
of  some  of  the  Hydriote  heroes  of  1821  under 
the  arcade  of  the  entrance  to  the  Chapel:  of 
Manuel  Tombazis,  with  its  epitaph  in  verse  and 
its  enthusiastic  close,  — 

Glorious  son  of  a  glorious  land! 

But  perhaps  because  of  the  race  sympathy 
that  moves  us  all,  the  mother  and  son  would 
linger  longest  before  the  flat  marble  tomb  let 
into  the  stone  floor,  just  at  the  threshold  of  the 
Chapel,  where  in  clear  English  letters  it  is  set 
forth  that  "under  this  marble  lie  the  mortal 
remains"  of  one  Brudnell  J.  Bruce,  an  ensign 
in  his  Majesty's  Foot  Guards,  who,  having  come 
to  Greece  with  his  Majesty's  ambassador, 
"unhappily"  died  of  fever  in  Poros  in  1828. 

They  half  smiled  over  the  quaint  wording, 
and  would  discuss  whether  the  "unhappily" 
referred  to  the  bare  fact  of  the  death,  or  to  the 
lonely  death  in  a  far  country.  Randal  would  try 
to  recall  what  was  the  precise  uniform  which 
an  ensign  in  the  Foot  Guards  of  his  Majesty 


242       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

King  George  IV  would  have  worn,  and  his 
mother  would  wonder  who  had  mourned  for  the 
poor  lad,  and  how  it  had  happened  that  he  had 
come  to  Poros  in  those  far-off  days:  whether  on 
duty  or  for  pleasure;  whether  perhaps  he  might 
have  taken  part  in  the  Battle  of  Navarino, 
fought  a  few  months  before  his  death.  Randal 
objected  that  he  had  been  in  the  Foot  Guards, 
not  a  naval  officer. 

"Well,  but,  Randal,  he  might  have  happened 
to  be  on  one  of  the  English  ships  at  the  time, 
on  the  Asia  or  the  Albion,  and  then  he  would 
have  been  sure  to  have  fought,  you  know." 
And  she  would  fall  to  wondering  whether  the 
young  ensign  had  left  any  descendants,  and 
whether  they  knew  of  his  grave  in  this  far-off 
Grecian  island. 

Inside  the  Chapel  she  delighted  in  the  old 
Byzantine  and  Russian  icons,  wondering  at  the 
dark  ascetic  faces  of  the  saints,  with  the  heavy 
halos  of  dull  silver  nailed  round  their  heads. 
There  was  a  curious  icon  of  the  three  hierarchs, 
St.  Gregorius,  St.  Basil,  and  St.  John  Chrysos- 
torn,  standing  upright  in  a  row.  Of  the  three 
she  had  a  slight  preference  for  St.  Basil,  but  they 
were  all  terribly  wooden.  The  Angel  Gabriel 
painted  on  the  side  door  of  the  Templon  was 
also  a  quaint  conception,  —  an  anaemic  youth 


with  flowing  brown  locks,  one  eye  higher  than 
the  other,  and  clad  in  white  garments  whose 
texture,  to  judge  by  their  massive  folds,  might 
have  been  of  plaster. 

Returning  from  the  Monastery  they  would 
time  their  start  so  as  to  get  the  best  moment  of 
the  sunset  just  beyond  the  bridge,  when  the 
houses  of  Poros  came  into  sight,  and  the  narrow 
beach  divided  two  golden  seas  by  one  dark  strip 
of  land. 

The  summer  was  nearly  over,  and  Randal's 
time  was  getting  very  short,  but  Mrs.  Lee  was 
loath  to  leave  before  the  vintage.  So  they  spent 
long  hours  in  the  vineyards,  with  the  fragrance 
of  sun-ripened  grapes  around  them,  among  the 
great  panniers  of  heaped-up  purple  and  yellow 
bunches. 

At  last,  most  reluctantly,  they  were  forced  to 
fix  the  day  of  their  departure.  On  the  previous 
afternoon  the  heat  of  the  sun  had  been  over- 
powering, and  Mrs.  Lee,  seized  rather  suddenly 
with  a  violent  headache,  had  returned  very 
early  to  the  little  hotel. 

About  two  in  the  morning  Yannoula  was 
aroused  by  a  loud  and  repeated  knocking  at  the 
outer  door  of  her  courtyard.  Midnight  alarms 
were  so  rare  in  Poros  that  it  was  some  time  before 
her  dazed  senses  awoke  to  the  fact  that  the 


244       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

sound  was  a  real  one.  When  she  at  last  opened 
her  window  on  the  narrow  street  and  looked  out 
into  the  bright  moonlight,  she  saw,  to  her  utter 
astonishment,  Randal  Lee  standing  below  and 
trying  to  shake  open  the  wooden  gate.  He  gave 
a  gasp  of  relief  when  he  saw  her,  and  called  to 
her  to  come  —  to  come  at  once.  His  explana- 
tion was  not  very  clear,  for  his  impatience  made 
him  lose  the  few  Greek  words  he  knew;  but  his 
gestures,  his  frequent  repetition  of  the  word 
"mother,"  at  last  made  Yannoula  understand 
that  something  was  wrong,  and  that  her  pres- 
ence was  needed. 

She  hastily  threw  on  a  few  clothes,  gave  one 
glance  at  the  sleeping  boy  whom  nothing  had 
disturbed,  and,  hurried  by  Randal's  repeated 
calls,  left  the  house  with  him,  without  even  tying 
her  kerchief  round  her  head.  As  they  ran  down 
the  moonlit  streets,  across  the  deserted  market- 
place, and  out  on  the  quay,  Randal,  for  all  his 
anxiety,  could  not  help  noticing  how  much 
younger  she  looked  with  her  hair  uncovered 
and  hanging  in  two  loose  plaits  as  it  had  been 
done  for  the  night.  His  mother  was  ill,  he  re- 
peated, very  ill;  her  head,  tapping  his  own  to 
be  sure  he  was  using  the  right  word,  was  very 
hot,  and  there  was  no  woman  in  the  hotel.  When 
they  arrived,  the  doctor  was  already  there. 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER  245 

It  was  a  slight  sunstroke,  he  announced,  — 
nothing  to  be  seriously  alarmed  about,  —  the 
lady  must  keep  quiet  for  a  day  or  two,  and  have 
cold  compresses  applied  regularly.  Strangers, 
he  added,  were  always  careless  about  exposure 
to  the  sun;  they  forgot  that  it  was  not  the  sun 
of  their  own  climate. 

Yannoula  stayed  all  that  night,  changing  the 
compresses  and  trying  to  keep  wet  linen  rags  cool 
by  wrapping  them  round  the  water  jars.  Kyr 
Charalambo,  the  hotel  keeper,  and  the  men- 
servants,  stared  at  her  uncovered  head,  and  in 
the  morning  the  former  offered  to  bring  his 
mother  to  look  after  the  lady.  She  was  very 
clever  in  sickness,  he  assured  Randal,  and  wise 
in  medicines.  But  the  young  man  shook  his 
head.  No,  they  knew  Yannoula;  if  she  could 
stay,  his  mother  would  prefer  it.  So  she  stayed 
all  the  next  day,  sending  one  of  the  boys  from 
the  quay  to  her  house  to  bring  Andriko  and  her 
black  kerchief. 

On  the  second  day  Mrs.  Lee  was  much  better; 
on  the  third  she  was  entirely  recovered  and  able 
to  travel.  They  left  by  the  steamer  for  Piraeus 
with  many  expressions  of  gratitude  and  delight, 
and  many  promises  of  returning  again  the  next 
summer. 

They  never  returned,  however,  nor  did  Yan- 


246       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

noula  ever  see  them  again,  and  familiar  figures 
though  they  had  become  in  Poros,  it  is  probable 
they  would  soon  have  been  forgotten,  had  it  not 
been  for  a  circumstance  which  kept  their  mem- 
ory fresh  for  many  a  year,  and  which  made  the 
poor  woman  often  curse  the  day  on  which  they 
had  ever  set  foot  on  the  island. 

The  trouble  began  with  the  generous  pay  that 
Andriko,  or  rather  his  mother  for  him,  had  re- 
ceived from  the  strangers,  and  the  various  pre- 
sents which  had  been  added  as  well.  Among 
these  was  a  wonderful  English  clasp  knife  which 
Randal  had  given  to  the  boy,  and  a  black  winter 
dress  for  which  Mrs.  Lee  had  written  to  Athens 
for  Yannoula,  of  such  soft  woolen  texture  as 
Poros  had  never  seen  before. 

Andriko  naturally  boasted  of  all  he  had  earned, 
and  Yannoula  herself,  poor  creature,  made  no 
secret  of  her  good  luck,  and  answered  all  ques- 
tions concerning  the  strangers'  generosity  quite 
frankly.  Jealousy  was  aroused.  Comments 
became  at  first  spiteful,  and  then  openly  hostile. 
What  pay  was  this  for  doing  almost  nothing? 
If  carrying  a  basket  or  a  shawl  up  a  hillside 
brought  in  so  much,  then  all  their  boys  had 
better  stop  rowing,  or  fishing,  or  digging,  and 
run  after  all  the  townfolk  who  came  to  Poros 
every  summer. 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    247 

Yannoula,  people  remembered,  had  been  a 
good  deal  with  these  strangers.  She  had  taken 
them  to  her  garden  over  on  the  mainland,  and 
they  had  been  seen  at  her  house,  too,  more  than 
once.  Who  could  tell,  after  all,  how  she  had 
wormed  things  out  of  them?  A  widow  woman 
should  not  make  so  free.  If  it  had  only  been  the 
old  lady,  well  and  good.  But  there  was  the  son 
as  well  —  And  Yannoula  was  a  young  woman 
yet.  He!  —  he!  —  who  could  tell? 

Women  are  secret  things !  Generally  it  is  im- 
possible to  trace  the  birth  of  a  rumor:  how  the 
whispered  hint  of  yesterday  becomes  to-day's 
open  scandal.  But  hi  this  case  there  was  no 
difficulty. 

Suddenly,  one  day,  virtuous  matrons  and 
maids  shuddered,  young  men  tittered,  and  old 
people  shook  their  heads,  over  an  absolutely 
vouched-for  story  of  Yannoula's  having  been 
seen  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  half -dressed,  her 
hair  flying  behind  her  like  a  madwoman's,  tear- 
ing down  the  streets  alone  with  the  young 
officer,  the  stranger.  All  doubters  were  silenced 
at  once.  An  eye-witness  was  prepared  to  swear 
on  the  cross,  if  need  be,  to  what  she  had  seen. 

Old  Kyra  Marina  had  been  sitting  up  all  night 
with  her  granddaughter,  whose  baby  had  been 
born  in  the  evening,  and  hearing  a  noise  of  run- 


248       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

ning  feet,  and  strange  talk  in  the  street  below, 
she  had  looked  through  the  window  and  had 
seen  this  thing  with  her  own  eyes.  Oh,  they 
were  good  eyes  yet,  for  all  her  age;  and  the 
moonlight  had  been  as  bright  as  day.  No,  no, 
these  were  not  "clean  doings"  of  Yannoula's. 

In  vain  her  neighbor,  Kyra  Sophoula,  brought 
forward  the  strange  lady's  sudden  illness,  and 
related  all  the  incidents  from  the  first  hurried 
knocking  at  Yannoula's  door.  She  was  met  by 
open  ridicule. 

Sudden  illness!  Bah!  —  a  terrible  illness, 
truly,  when  the  lady  had  been  able  to  leave  the 
next  day.  The  third  day,  was  it?  Well,  it  was  all 
one.  Besides,  was  Yannoula  a  doctor,  that  she 
should  have  been  fetched  at  that  time  of  night  ? 
The  hotel  people  had  all  seen  her,  had  they? 
Well,  what  of  that?  She  may  have  been  there, 
but  who  could  tell  when  she  had  received  her 
midnight  visitor,  or  for  how  long  she  had  enter- 
tained him  before  they  began  their  mad  race 
together  down  the  streets?  No,  no;  those 
stories  were  good  for  little  children  to  believe ! 

The  gossip  did  not  lessen  as  the  days  went  by. 
Nay,  it  even  spread  further.  Kyra  Marina  had 
not  been  silent,  and  her  tale  lost  nothing  in  the 
frequent  retelling.  It  was  a  long  time  since  she 
had  been  able  to  command  the  undivided  atten- 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    249 

tion  of  so  many  listeners.  The  sole  witness! 
Would  it  have  been  in  human  nature  to  keep 
silent? 

Many  pitied  Andriko.  A  few  men  defended 
Yannoula :  a  fine  woman  yet,  they  said,  and  left 
a  widow  so  early. 

There  were  other  young  widows  besides  her, 
answered  the  first,  severely,  but  they  kept  their 
eyes  lowered  under  their  black  kerchiefs  as  an 
honest  widow  should.  Such  a  good  name  as 
Kyr  Yoryi's  had  always  been,  too!  Eh,  eh,  it 
was  a  pity  that  the  lad  was  not  a  little  older. 
He  would  soon  have  settled  such  goings-on,  and 
would  never  have  allowed  his  father's  name  to 
be  shamed  in  this  way.  And  voices  grew  shriller, 
while  red  pitchers  waited  their  turn  to  be  filled 
at  the  fountain. 

The  evil  talk  grew  and  spread,  —  from  the 
fountain  to  the  marketplace  and  from  the 
marketplace  to  the  quay. 

Kyra  Sophoula,  coming  out  of  Kyr  Michali's 
shop  one  morning,  where  she  had  been  for  some 
dried  beans,  came  upon  three  men  relating  the 
story,  with  the  addition  of  various  vile  epithets, 
to  some  sponge  divers  from  Hydra,  with  the 
injunction  that  they  should  repeat  it  to  Kyr 
Apostoli  when  they  got  back  to  their  own  island, 
so  that  he  might  not  remain  ignorant  of  his 


250       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

sister-in-law's  fine  doings,  and  that  he  might 
"take  his  measures"  as  head  of  the  family.  The 
old  woman  turned  on  them  furiously,  asking 
them  why  they  were  not  ashamed  to  tell  such 
evil  lies  of  their  own  countrywoman. 

Poros,  lounging  round  Sotiro's  coffee-house, 
smiled  and  said :  — 

"Do  not  listen  to  them,  Kyra  Sophoula. 
What  do  they  know?  You  do  not  eat  straw;  no 
one  can  deceive  you;  that  is  very  certain." 

And  then,  when  she  had  gone,  it  laughed  out 
loud,  and  added :  — 

"She  is  a  good  advocate,  she  is.  Who  knows 
what  her  pay  may  be?" 

Her  pay  was  poor  Yannoula's  weeping  grati- 
tude as  she  sat  crouching  on  the  floor  of  her 
little  house,  wearied  out  with  many  tears,  her 
head  on  the  old  woman's  knees.  For  Yannoula 
was  not  strong-minded.  She  was  utterly  incap- 
able of  going  about  as  usual,  of  braving  public 
opinion,  of  living  down  the  scandal.  Her  good 
name  was  gone,  she  moaned;  it  was  an  evil  day 
on  which  she  had  been  born.  Better,  she  cried, 
rocking  herself  backwards  and  forwards,  that  a 
vampire  had  sucked  her  blood  than  that  she 
should  have  lived  to  see  this  hour. 

Then  with  the  first  rains  came  the  terrible 
news  that  the  sponge  divers  had  faithfully 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    251 

delivered  their  message;  that  her  brother-in- 
law,  the  stern  old  man,  furious  beyond  words, 
was  preparing  to  come  to  Poros  to  take  her  boy 
away  from  her,  declaring  that  never  while  he 
was  alive  should  his  brother's  son  be  brought  up 
by  a  shameless  woman  who  had  willfully  black- 
ened their  good  name. 

Half  mad  with  fear,  trembling  at  every  pass- 
ing step,  she  waited  for  Kyra  Sophoula,  who 
had  run  to  consult  the  schoolmaster  on  the  sub- 
ject. When  the  old  woman  returned  she  assured 
Yannoula  that  she  might  be  easy,  that  there 
was  no  fear  at  all;  Kyr  Vangheli  had  said 
such  a  thing  was  quite  impossible,  that  the  law 
would  never  allow  a  child  to  be  taken  from  its 
mother  by  force. 

But  when  Kyr  Apostoli  arrived  from  Hydra 
and  summoned  his  nephew  to  come  away  with 
him,  no  force  was  required.  Andriko's  mind 
had  been  slowly  poisoned  long  before  his  uncle's 
arrival.  Stray  words  had  been  let  drop  before 
him.  Disparaging  remarks,  at  first  timid  and 
then  bolder,  had  been  made.  The  older  boys  at 
school  had  repeated  to  him  what  they  had  heard 
from  their  elders.  Yes,  beyond  doubt,  his 
mother  had  been  too  often  with  these  strangers, 
she  had  spoken  too  freely  to  them,  for  a  decent, 
self-respecting  widow,  who  should  keep  her  black 


252       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

kerchief  well  over  her  eyes,  and  look  down  as 
she  walked.  The  women  even  said  —  But  the 
story  generally  stopped  at  what  they  said,  for 
even  the  most  hardened  shrank  from  telling 
the  boy  all  the  foul  rumors  that  had  been  twisted 
to  fit  into  that  unfortunately  overseen  night 
errand  of  his  mother's.  However,  their  reticence 
did  not  avail  her  much.  Definite  accusations 
that  could  be  grappled  with  might  possibly  have 
aroused  some  disbelief,  some  latent  instinct  in 
the  boy  to  defend  her,  but  the  vague  affirmation, 
—  "She  has  made  your  father's  good  name  a 
laughing-stock  for  all  the  island,"  stung  his 
vanity,  and  excited  his  anger  as  an  unpardon- 
able offense  against  the  dignity  of  his  budding 
manhood. 

His  uncle's  promises  of  adoption,  of  future 
inheritance,  were  scarcely  required  as  an  induce- 
ment to  go  with  him,  although  he  remembered 
and  counted  on  them  in  later  years.  His  own 
sullen  resentment  against  his  mother,  added  to 
the  change  and  novelty  of  the  step,  were  all- 
sufficient.  He  was  past  the  age  when  he  might 
have  missed  Yannoula's  care  and  tenderness. 
In  fact,  he  had  been  getting  impatient  of  them 
for  some  time  past,  as  he  had  of  any  restrictions 
on  his  liberty.  Work  of  any  sort  he  loathed, 
and  he  foresaw  that  in  a  life  spent  with  his 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    253 

mother  there  would  be  no  lack  of  it.  His  uncle, 
for  all  his  sternness,  looked  what  he  was,  a  dis- 
tinctly prosperous  man.  So  when  he  said  to  the 
boy,  "Come  with  me  to  Hydra;  I  will  make  you 
my  son;  and  as  for  that  woman  who  has  black- 
ened our  good  name,  neither  you  nor  I  will  look 
on  her  again,"  Andriko  went  willingly,  with  no 
thought,  save  an  angry  one,  for  the  mother  he 
was  abandoning. 

Even  the  neighbors  who  had  been  the  most 
relentless  softened  towards  the  miserable  woman 
when  at  last  her  mind  grasped  the  terrible  truth 
that  her  boy  had  left  her  of  his  own  free  will, 
that  he  had  not  been  dragged  away  struggling, 
that  he  had  not  even  left  a  message  or  a  single 
word  for  her.  They  gathered  around  her  with 
help  and  advice  and  pity. 

For  many  hours  after  the  first  shock  she  had 
lain  in  a  sort  of  heavy  torpor.  But  when  speech 
and  the  power  of  movement  returned  to  her  she 
refused  to  have  any  one  but  Kyra  Sophoula  be- 
side her,  even  for  the  first  night.  And  above  all 
would  she  neither  then  nor  ever  allow  a  word  of 
blame  against  Andriko. 

"Who  knows  what  that  bad  man  made  him 
believe?"  she  said.  "After  all,  he  is  but  a  child. 
Perhaps  as  soon  as  he  feels  alone  he  will  get 
away,  and  return  to  me;  if  not,  when  he  is  a 


254       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

little  older  he  will  be  sure  to  understand." 
Neither  would  she  listen  to  the  schoolmaster, 
who  came  the  next  day  to  tell  her  that  the  law 
would  certainly  be  in  her  favor,  and  who 
offered  to  help  her  to  appeal  to  it.  "We  have 
been  decent  people  all  our  lives,  Kyr  Vangheli," 
she  answered,  "and  never  had  aught  to  do  with 
the  law.  Do  you  think  I  will  ask  it  now  to  drag 
my  boy  back  to  me,  like  a  deserter  with  tied 
hands  whom  the  soldiers  push  along  by  his 
elbow?  No!  when  he  comes,  he  shall  come  free." 

For  two  days  after  this  she  remained  silent 
and  listless,  letting  Kyra  Sophoula  fetch  water 
for  her,  sit  near  her,  lie  beside  her  through  the 
long  weary  night,  never  speaking  except  when 
spoken  to,  and  never  breaking  bread  or  putting 
water  to  her  lips  except  when  it  was  placed  in 
her  very  hand.  Then  on  the  third  day  she  rose 
early,  swept  the  little  house,  made  some  black 
coffee,  and  when  the  old  woman  returned  from 
the  fountain,  she  put  her  hands  on  the  bent 
shoulders  and  looked  down  into  the  kind  old 
wrinkled  face. 

"Kyra  Sophoula,  you  must  go  back  now  to 
your  own  house.  It  is  time,  and  Maroussa  is 
there  alone.  For  all  you  have  done,  may  God 
repay  you  a  hundredfold.  As  for  me,  have  no 
anxiety,  I  shall  be  well.  Yes,  yes;  I  shall  eat  and 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    255 

I  shall  drink.  Since  it  was  written  in  my  book  of 
Fate  that  I  should  lose  these  years  out  of  my 
life,  it  is  needful  that  I  should  be  strong,  so  that 
when  my  boy  comes  back  to  me,  I  may  have 
more  years  to  live  with  him." 

In  the  days  that  followed,  that  was  the  re- 
frain which  recurred  at  the  end  of  almost  every 
sentence  she  spoke :  "when  my  boy  comes  back 
to  me."  In  time  she  heard  from  stray  sources 
of  Andriko's  safe  arrival  in  Hydra,  of  his  having 
been  introduced  there  as  Kyr  Apostoli's  adopted 
son.  Once,  after  many  months,  she  heard  that 
he  was  ill.  It  was  nothing,  they  said,  just  a  lit- 
tle fever,  but  she  ran  half  distraught  to  Kyra 
Sophoula. 

The  old  woman  tried  to  comfort  her.  "He 
is  a  strong  lad;  do  not  eat  your  heart  out,  my 
poor  one;  God  is  great." 

"Yes,"  sobbed  Yannoula,  "yes,  a  strong  lad, 
but  now  what  may  be  happening  there,  God  only 
knows." 

When  they  told  her  he  was  well  again,  she 
went  up  to  the  Monastery  and  lighted  a  candle 
before  the  icon  of  the  Virgin,  who  had  listened 
to  her  prayers  and  cured  her  boy. 

Among  her  treasured  possessions  was  a  hand- 
kerchief with  which  Mrs.  Lee  had  once  bound 
up  a  cut  on  Andriko's  hand.  She  loved  the  feel 


256       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

of  the  fine  cambric,  sun-bleached  and  thyme- 
scented,  as  only  island-washed  linen  can  be, 
and  would  sit  for  hours  holding  it  against  her 
face. 

One  comfort  she  had,  rather  rare  in  Poros,  — 
a  picture  of  Andriko,  —  a  small  amateur  photo- 
graph taken  by  a  young  lady,  who,  as  Yannoula 
told  Kyra  Sophoula,  had  once  long  ago  stayed 
for  a  little  while  with  the  people  of  the  red  house 
on  the  hill. 

"And  how  did  she  make  the  picture?"  asked 
Kyra  Sophoula,  who  had  often  heard  the  story 
before,  but  who  was  wise,  and  knew  when  to 
talk  and  when  to  listen. 

"She  used  to  go  about,"  Yannoula  answered, 
"with  a  small  black  leather  box,  taking  pictures 
of  all  sorts  of  things,  just  with  a  little  click  —  so; 
you  could  not  see  the  picture  then  at  once,  but 
after  some  days  only,  and  then  you  could  always 
recognize  the  people  and  the  places  quite  well. 
She  took  a  picture  of  the  old  house  that  Yoryi 
the  blind  one  lives  in,  the  one  that  has  the  big 
vine  over  the  door,  and  the  wooden  steps  out- 
side. Half  the  shutters  are  missing,  and  nearly 
all  the  tiles  from  the  roof,  but  she  took  that,  and 
never  looked  at  the  Mayor's  fine  new  house  with 
the  green  shutters  and  the  stone  balcony.  She 
took  pictures  of  many  people  too;  some  of  the 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    257 

old  ones,  —  Barba  Stathi  with  his  beast;  old 
Anneza  with  her  spindle.  But  most  of  all  she 
took  pictures  of  children:  little  Mitso,  Dino, 
Tasso  Kondelli  the  lame  one,  Kyra  Katerina's 
Antigone,  —  the  one  with  the  fair  hair;  and 
she  would  not  let  Kyra  Katerina  put  the  child's 
best  clothes  on  either,  but  just  took  her  as  she 
was,  in  her  pinafore,  with  bare  feet.  And  one  day 
she  took  my  Andriko.  He  was  about  nine  then, 
and  she  looked  at  him  for  a  long  time,  as  all 
strangers  did  always,  and  spoke  about  him  with 
the  ladies  of  the  red  house,  who  were  with  her, 
and  then  she  told  him  to  stand  still,  just  where 
he  was,  beside  an  old  boat,  and  she  took  the 
picture.  I  was  close  by,  for  I  had  just  come  with 
my  pitcher  from  the  fountain,  and  she  asked  if 
he  were  mine.  When  I  answered  yes,  that  he 
was  mine,  she  said,4 'A  beautiful  boy,  truly;  may 
he  live  to  you.'  Then  she  said  she  would  make 
two  pictures  of  him,  one  to  keep,  and  the  other 
she  would  give  to  me.  She  brought  it  to  me  her- 
self two  days  later,  in  this  little  frame  as  you  see 
it.  God  make  her  years  many !  See  how  like  it  is! 
look  at  my  boy,  just  as  he  stood  there  with  his 
little  hand  on  the  side  of  the  boat  and  all  his 
curls  showing  against  the  sky!  My  little  boy! 
Often  do  I  go  to  sleep  with  this  picture  held  fast 
to  my  breast,  that  I  may  perhaps  dream  of  him, 


258       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

but  nearly  always  do  I  dream  of  other  things, 
not  of  him.  Only  last  night,  if  you  believe  me,  I 
dreamed  of  those  Athenians  who  came  by  that 
new  steamer  on  Sunday,  and  who  took  their 
food  in  baskets  up  to  the  Monastery.  Of  that 
fat  woman  who  laughed  so  loud,  and  of  the  girl 
with  the  red  hair.  What  did  I  need,"  she  burst 
out  with  a  sort  of  quiet  rage,  "to  dream  all  night 
of  strangers  whom  I  shall  never  see  again  in  all 
my  life?" 

Kyra  Sophoula  spoke  gently  to  her  and  soothed 
her,  and  the  little  photograph  in  its  worn  leather 
frame  was  hung  up  again  in  its  place  over  the 
solitary  bed. 

The  weeks,  the  months,  flew  by.  New  Year 
came  and  went.  The  almonds  blossomed  first, 
then  the  peach  and  the  cherry  trees  made  the 
gardens  white  with  their  blossoms.  Then  came 
the  great  heat  with  the  figs  and  the  grapes  and 
the  Virgin's  Feast.  Then  it  was  autumn  again, 
and  the  hills  were  covered  with  heather  and 
cyclamen,  and  lastly  the  anemones  sprang  up 
and  carpeted  the  land  with  violet  and  crimson 
and  purple. 

One  evening  in  late  November,  Kyra  Sophoula 
went  next  door  to  see  whether  Yannoula  could 
lend  her  a  little  oil.  She  found  her  sitting  on  a 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    259 

low  stool  in  the  fast  darkening  room,  her  head 
bent  forward,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 

"What  is  it,  my  poor  one?"  she  asked,  touch- 
ing her  shoulder;  "is  your  heart  heavy  to- 
night?" 

Yannoula  lifted  her  face  and  looked  at  her, 
with  trembling  lips.  "It  is  a  year  to-day." 

The  old  woman  started.  "A  year?  It  is  not 
possible.  How  do  you  know  it?" 

"He  left,"  said  Yannoula  in  a  toneless  voice, 
"two  days  before  his  name-day.  I  had  bought 
the  sugar  for  the  kourambiedes.  To-day  is 
Friday;  on  Sunday  it  will  be  the  Feast  of  St. 
Andrea." 

"You  are  right,"  assented  Kyra  Sophoula, 
after  a  moment's  pause;  "it  is  a  year." 

"Kyra  Sophoula,  he  cannot  be  away  much 
longer  now,  can  he?" 

"No,  my  daughter,  not  much  longer." 

"He  will  return  before  another  year,  Kyra 
Sophoula?" 

"Surely  he  will  return." 

But  the  next  year  on  the  same  day,  and  the 
next,  and  for  three  more  long  years  after  that, 
the  same  questions  were  asked  and  answered. 

"He  cannot  be  away  much  longer  now,  can 
he?" 

"Not  much  longer,  my  daughter." 


260       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"He  will  return  before  another  year?" 

"Surely  he  will  return.** 

In  the  mean  while  Yannoula  went  about  her 
work  very  quietly,  growing  a  little  thinner,  a 
little  paler,  but  not  altering  very  much,  listen- 
ing gratefully  to  the  smallest  details  that  any 
one  could  give  her  about  her  boy,  what  he  did, 
what  he  said,  what  he  wore;  constantly  wonder- 
ing, when  alone  with  Kyra  Sophoula,  what  had 
made  him  go,  what  made  him  stay,  whether  he 
often  thought  of  her,  of  his  "manitsa,"  as  he 
used  to  call  her  when  he  first  began  to  talk; 
trying  to  imagine  who  could  have  poisoned  his 
mind  against  her,  and  how  he  could  have  decided 
to  leave  her;  but  all  this  with  never  a  trace  of 
bitterness,  only  the  great  love  that  feels  no  need 
of  forgiving,  and  the  weary  longing  that  ended 
always  with  the  same  question:  "He  will  return 
before  another  year?"  And  though  the  years 
rolled  on  and  did  not  bring  him,  still  the  old 
answer  comforted  her,  "Surely  he  will  return." 

When  people  heard  of  the  old  man's  death  in 
Hydra  and  of  his  having  disinherited  Andriko 
after  all  his  fine  promises,  the  news,  strange  to 
say,  was  received  on  the  whole  with  expressions 
of  satisfaction.  Whether  this  was  due  to  the  sort 
of  rough  justice  which  sooner  or  later  governs 
public  opinion,  or  whether  her  former  judges 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    261 

had  been  unconsciously  touched  by  the  mo- 
ther's patient  waiting,  the  fact  remains  that  there 
were  few  who  in  one  form  or  another  did  not 
repeat  Kyra  Sophoula's  verdict  of  "Serve  him 
right." 

As  for  Yannoula  herself,  her  first  feeling  was 
one  of  fierce  indignation  that  the  dead  man 
should  have  dared  so  to  deceive  her  boy;  her 
next  a  wild  joy  that  now  at  last  misfortune 
might  bring  him  back  to  her.  There  was  no  one 
to  keep  him  away  now.  Surely,  surely  he  would 
come  at  once. 

Kyra  Sophoula  said  little,  but  thought  much. 
The  feverish  joy  in  Yannoula's  eyes  almost 
frightened  her. 

"You  must  have  patience,  my  poor  one. 
Doubtless  he  has  much  to  do  before  he  can 
leave;  remember  he  is  almost  a  man  now." 

"Almost  a  man,"  echoed  Yannoula,  "almost 
a  man!"  Then,  stretching  out  her  arms  to  the 
little  faded  photograph,  "Oh,  my  boy,  who  has 
become  a  man,  come  to  me  quickly!  Come!" 

But  the  days  passed  and  he  did  not  come. 

It  was  Holy  Week,  and  on  the  Thursday,  not- 
withstanding all  Kyra  Sophoula's  persuasion, 
Yannoula  resolutely  refused  to  go  to  church  for 
the  evening  service.  She  could  not  stand  for  so 
many  hours,  she  said,  her  knees  trembled.  So 


262       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

Kyra  Sophoula  heard  all  the  twelve  Gospels 
without  her,  and  saw  the  tall  Cross  brought  out 
and  fixed  in  the  middle  of  the  nave. 

On  Good  Friday,  however,  she  made  Yan- 
noula  promise  to  meet  her  at  church  in  good  time 
for  the  Epitaphios  service,  which  in  the  islands 
does  not  begin  until  very  late  in  the  evening. 

Kyra  Sophoula  had  left  the  house  early,  hav- 
ing a  bundle  of  herbs  to  leave  at  the  house  of  a 
sick  woman  who  lived  up  near  the  ruined  mill. 
So  that  when  she  got  down  to  the  church  and 
could  not  discover  Yannoula  anywhere  among 
the  crowd  of  women,  she  was  very  disappointed 
and  even  slightly  anxious.  However,  she  lighted 
her  little  yellow  taper  from  the  one  held  by  the 
woman  next  to  her,  and,  carefully  wrapping  the 
unlighted  end  in  her  handkerchief  for  fear  of 
grease  spots  on  her  black  skirt,  settled  down  to 
wait,  in  the  hope  that  Yannoula  might  come  in 
later  on. 

The  service  with  its  sad  chanting  wound  out 
its  slow  length.  In  Athens,  where  the  congrega- 
tion is  fashionable  and  pressed  for  time,  the 
priests  often  think  well  to  skip  some  of  the  verses; 
but  in  the  islands,  never.  Every  single  line  of  the 
three  long  funeral  chants,  with  their  different 
intonings,  is  well  known  and  is  expected  in  its 
turn. 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    263 

Towards  the  end  of  the  last  chant,  when  the 
wail  of  the  Virgin  Mother  by  the  tomb  filled  the 
church,  — 

O  light  of  my  eyes!  0  sweetest  of  sons! 

Kyra  Sophoula  bent  her  head  and  felt  almost 
glad  that  Yannoula  had  not  come. 

The  procession  was  formed;  the  Epitaphios 
was  reverently  lifted,  and  the  bearers  passed 
slowly  between  the  serried  ranks  of  low-bending 
men  and  women,  who  afterwards  closed  in  be- 
hind to  form  the  rear  of  the  procession. 

Tightly  wedged  in  the  dense  mass  of  people, 
Kyra  Sophoula  was  borne  slowly  onward, 
through  the  clouds  of  incense  and  the  suffocat- 
ing smoke  of  multitudes  of  little  yellow  tapers, 
towards  the  central  door.  She  had  purposely 
held  back  as  much  as  possible,  and  succeeded 
in  slipping  aside  the  moment  the  crowd  issued 
from  the  church  in  the  wake  of  the  procession. 
She  turned  to  the  right  and  walked  slowly  up  a 
steep  side  street,  letting  her  little  black  shawl 
slip  off  her  head,  for  it  was  a  warm  night.  She 
could  hear  the  tramp  of  many  feet  from  the  road 
below,  the  deep  chant  of  the  priests  and  the 
shrill  "Kyrie  Eleison"  of  the  young  boys' 
voices.  Once  through  a  break  in  the  houses  she 
saw  the  long  flickering  line  of  lights.  The  night 


264       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

was  so  still  that  her  own  taper  remained  lighted 
in  her  hand. 

It  was  the  first  time  for  many  years  that  she 
had  not  followed  the  Good  Friday  procession 
all  round  the  village,  along  the  sea,  and  back 
again  into  the  church,  and  stayed  there  until 
the  last  Gospel,  which  so  few  stay  to  hear,  had 
been  read.  It  was  a  sacrifice,  —  how  great,  only 
those  may  say  who  know  how  dull  and  colorless 
the  hard-working  lives  of  old  peasant  women 
can  be;  lives  in  which  the  church  ceremonies 
and  the  general  religious  excitement  of  Holy 
Week  are  often  the  only  bright  spot  of  the 
year. 

But  Yannoula's  absence  troubled  the  old 
woman,  and  she  toiled  on  to  the  little  house 
down  by  the  dark  arch.  The  door  was  open,  and 
she  passed  straight  into  the  small  kitchen.  It 
was  empty,  and  there  was  no  answer  to  her 
knock  at  the  inner  door,  so  she  pushed  it  open 
and  entered. 

Yannoula  was  not  on  the  bed.  The  red  cotton 
coverlet  lay  straight  and  uncreased  over  it.  The 
room  was  dimly  lit  by  the  tiny  oil  lamp  hanging 
before  the  sacred  icon  of  the  Virgin  and  Child, 
and  in  that  trembling  circle  of  light  Kyra 
Sophoula  could  just  distinguish  a  black  crouch- 
ing figure  on  the  floor  before  the  icon. 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER     265 

She  took  a  step  forward  with  outstretched 
hands,  but  Yannoula's  voice,  low  and  broken, 
reached  her,  and  she  stopped  short,  —  a  toneless 
voice  that  had  exhausted  its  tears:  — 

"Ah,  Holy  Virgin!  my  little  Virgin,  have 
mercy  upon  me!  Give  me  my  boy.  Let  him 
come  to  me;  let  me  put  my  arms  round  him  just 
once,  and  then  I  can  let  him  go  again  if  he  wishes 
it.  Bring  him  to  me,  my  little  Virgin,  and  you 
shall  have  a  white  candle  as  thick  as  my  arm  to 
burn  before  your  icon.  On  foot  I  will  bring  it  to 
you,  up  to  the  Monastery.  Oh,  most  Holy 
Virgin,  have  pity  on  me!  You  who  saw  your  Son 
on  the  cross  long  years  ago  this  very  day.  But 
He  thought  of  your  pain  in  the  midst  of  his  own; 
He  spoke  to  you  from  there!" 

Suddenly  she  snatched  Andriko's  little  faded 
photograph  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress  and 
held  it  out  before  the  icon.  There  in  the  dim 
light,  with  her  pale  face  under  the  loosened 
black  kerchief,  the  reddened  eyelids,  the  sad 
lines  of  the  mouth,  she  was  a  far  better  type  of 
the  Sorrowing  Mother  than  the  cheap  Russian 
icon  before  which  she  knelt. 

"See,  Holy  Virgin,  —  here  is  my  lad;  when 
the  Feast  of  St.  Andrea  comes  again,  it  will  be 
seven  years  that  I  have  only  held  him  so  to  my 
breast!  Oh,  a  great  evil  has  found  me!  a  great 


266       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

evil!"  And  then  once  more  the  weary  cry: 
"Have  mercy,  my  little  Virgin  —  have  mercy!" 

Kyra  Sophoula  crossed  the  room  to  where 
the  icon  hung,  and  stooping  lifted  up  in  her 
weak  old  arms  the  poor  creature  kneeling  there. 

"My  poor  unfortunate,"  she  said,  settling 
the  kerchief  on  the  disordered  hair,  "you  have 
prayed  enough  for  to-night;  you  must  rest 
now." 

Yannoula  was  not  startled  at  finding  Kyra 
Sophoula  near  her.  Open  doors  are  the  rule, 
and  privacy  of  any  sort  is  very  much  the  excep- 
tion, in  Poros.  She  sank  wearily  upon  the  stool, 
which  the  old  woman  dragged  forward,  and 
closed  her  eyes.  Later  on,  she  consented  to  lie 
down  on  her  bed,  but  did  not  as  usual  try  to 
persuade  Kyra  Sophoula  to  leave  her.  On  the 
contrary,  she  clung  to  her  and  talked  much  and 
feverishly,  reverting  constantly  to  Andriko's 
early  childhood,  to  the  time  when  he  used  to 
toddle  about  after  her,  and  get  into  a  passion, 
stamping  his  little  feet  if  his  "manitsa"  left 
him  even  for  a  few  moments.  Towards  dawn 
she  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  Kyra 
Sophoula  set  out  in  quest  of  Kyr  Vangheli  the 
schoolmaster,  who  had  promised  to  write  a 
letter  for  her  to  Metro  in  Athens.  She  was  also 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    267 

carrying  six  red  eggs  for  Easter  to  little  Tasso1 
Kondelli,  whose  mother,  being  in  mourning,  had 
dyed  none  that  year. 

The  weather  had  changed  since  the  night 
before,  and  was  damp  and  chilly.  Heavy  gray 
clouds  lay  low  on  the  hills,  and  the  rain  was  not 
far  off.  The  old  woman  shivered  and  drew  the 
black  shawl  more  closely  round  her  shoulders. 

Suddenly  she  saw  the  schoolmaster  himself  in 
the  distance  coming  towards  her.  He  was  hurry- 
ing along  awkwardly  with  bent  head,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  shabby  coat.  When  he  caught 
sight  of  her  he  broke  into  a  sort  of  shambling 
trot.  He  had  been  looking  for  her,  he  said.  There 
was  something  she  must  know  without  loss  of 
time. 

When  she  had  heard  his  news  her  brown 
old  face  turned  a  dull  gray,  for  he  told  her 
that  Andriko  had  returned  to  Poros  that  same 
morning  without  warning  or  announcement  of 
any  sort;  that  from  what  he  had  gathered  from 
those  who  had  seen  and  spoken  to  the  boy,  or 
rather  to  the  young  man  now,  nothing  was 
further  from  his  intentions  than  to  seek  out  his 
mother  or  to  have  any  communication  with  her; 
that  sore  and  furious  at  his  disinheritance  he 
had  agreed  to  join  a  party  of  emigrants  leaving 
for  San  Francisco,  having  been  persuaded  that 


268       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

in  America  the  maximum  of  wages  was  obtain- 
able for  the  minimum  of  labor.  He  would  have 
left  direct  from  Hydra  but  that  a  fellow  emigrant 
who  had  advanced  him  the  passage  money,  and 
with  whom  he  was  to  leave,  had  wished  to  spend 
Easter  with  a  brother  who  lived  in  Poros.  They 
were  to  start  for  Piraeus  on  the  Monday  morning. 

"If  only,"  concluded  Kyr  Vangheli,  "if  only 
it  might  be  that  the  poor  woman  should  not 
hear  of  it." 

"Is  she  deaf?"  asked  Kyra  Sophoula  fiercely; 
"or  do  you  think  the  Poriotes  have  no  tongues?  " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  stammered  the  school- 
master; "I  know  it  is  very  difficult,  but  then  — 
what?  It  will  kill  her  to  hear  this  thing." 

"And,"  added  the  old  woman,  "if  at  least  it 
killed  her  on  the  spot  —  but  it  will  not." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  seconds,  then :  — 

"Some  one  must  find  Andriko,"  she  continued 
"find  him  and  speak  to  him.  He  will  not  want 
to  listen,  but  one  must  make  him." 

"Will  ymi?"  asked  Kyr  Vangheli. 

"7?  He  would  send  me  to  the  devil  straight 
off.  I  have  told  him  too  many  truths  in  my 
time." 

Kyr  Vangheli  frowned  thoughtfully.  "Shall 
I  get  the  priest  to  see  him?" 

"Pappa  Thanassi?  Ah,  bah!  That  would  be 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    269 

worse  still;  Andriko  would  run  at  the  very  sight 
of  his  black  robe.  No,  Kyr  Vangheli,  it  is  you 
who  must  find  him,  and  speak  to  him." 

"I?  Will  it  do  any  good?" 

"Perhaps  not,  but  at  least  you  may  make  him 
listen.  There  is  no  one  else." 

"What  shall  I  tell  him  about  his  mother? 
You  knew  him  better  than  I  did." 

"Tell  him,"  said  the  old  woman  grimly,  "that 
if  he  goes  away  without  seeing  her,  she  will  die 
of  her  grief,  and  that  if  she  dies  thus,  her  spirit 
will  surely  haunt  him  afterwards.  He  was  ever 
a  coward,  perhaps  that  may  frighten  him." 

Then,  as  she  saw  the  schoolmaster  hesitating, 
she  added :  — 

"Let  us  find  him  first,  and  the  moment  will 
bring  the  right  words.  He  will  be  at  Sotiro's, 
most  likely,  or  if  not  they  will  have  seen  him 
there." 

"Come  with  me,"  said  Kyr  Vangheli,  with 
sudden  resolution;  "perhaps  if  we  find  him  in 
the  presence  of  others  he  may  be  ashamed  to 
refuse." 

Kyra  Sophoula  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"Perhaps  so,  master,  —  perhaps  so." 

They  walked  on  towards  the  quay.  The  rain 
had  begun  now  and  was  falling  softly,  but 
neither  of  them  noticed  it.  Through  the  mist 


270       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

the  joy  bells  were  ringing  for  the  coming  Resur- 
rection Service,  and  the  first  gunshots  were 
heard  in  the  distance. 

As  they  neared  Sotiro's  coffee-house  they 
saw  a  crowd  collected  outside,  —  a  crowd  which 
pushed  and  whispered  and  whose  attention 
seemed  centred  on  something  in  its  midst.  Then 
some  one  ran  towards  them;  a  woman  with  wide- 
open  eyes  and  trembling  lips.  "Kyr  Vangheli," 
she  cried,  "come,  come  quickly.  Andriko,  Yan- 
noula's  Andriko,  who  came  to-day,  has  been 
shot!" 

The  schoolmaster  turned  very  white.  "Shot! 
How?  By  whom?" 

"By  mistake,  —  some  one  who  was  firing  for 
Easter;  they  do  not  know  who  it  was.  He  is  not 
dead  yet,  but  the  doctor  says  he  is  not  for  long." 

Kyra  Sophoula  ran  forward,  parting  those  in 
her  way  with  both  hands.  "Christ  and  Holy 
Virgin!  What  is  this?" 

Three  men  were  holding  the  tall  limp  figure, 
the  arms  trailed  on  each  side,  the  head  with  its 
wonderful  lines  drooped  on  the  left  shoulder. 
They  laid  him  down  gently  on  the  ground  not 
far  from  the  sea.  Barba  Manoli  held  him  up  in 
his  arms,  and  all  pressed  forward.  The  rain  was 
falling  fast. 

"Courage,  lad,  it  will  be  nothing."  His  eyes 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    271 

were  closed,  and  one  or  two  women  even  crossed 
themselves,  saying,  "He  is  gone;  it  is  fin- 
ished." But  Kyra  Sophoula,  who  had  got  close 
at  last,  knew  Andriko  was  alive  when  she  saw 
his  face,  though  it  was  gray  and  smeared  with 
wet  earth;  but  she  had  seen  many  wounded  men 
in  her  time,  and  she  knew  he  would  not  be  alive 
long. 

She  turned  wildly  to  the  doctor,  a  short  dark 
man,  who  had  placed  his  fingers  on  Andriko's 
pulse:  — 

"  Can  you  not  keep  him  alive  for  half  an  hour 
yet?  So  young  as  he  is,  so  strong  as  he  must 
be?" 

The  ball  had  lodged  in  the  bowels,  the  doctor 
said.  There  was  internal  hemorrhage.  He  might 
last  ten  minutes,  yet,  perhaps;  not  longer. 

Kyra  Sophoula  whispered  a  word  in  the  ear 
of  one  of  the  men  who  had  carried  Andriko. 
He  nodded  and  started  at  a  rapid  run  towards 
the  marketplace.  Just  then,  suddenly,  Andriko 
opened  his  eyes  and  looked  up  at  Barba  Ma- 
noli,  who  was  supporting  him;  but  the  lids  fell 
again. 

"  Courage,  lad,"  repeated  the  old  man,  rais- 
ing him  with  an  effort  a  little  higher  in  his  arms. 

Andriko's  eyes  opened  and  closed  once  o^ 
twice,  and  he  tried  to  lift  his  hand.  • 


272       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"Run  for  the  priest,"  cried  a  voice;  and  an- 
other added,  "Fetch  his  mother  quickly." 

Then  Andriko  spoke;  the  voice  was  faint  but 
audible. 

"Let  me  —  die  in  peace,"  he  said;  "let  Pappa 
Thanassi  keep  his  chanting  for  when  you  bury 
me." 

"But  your  mother,  Andriko,  your  mother? 
You  must  have  your  mother's  blessing,  my  son," 
put  in  Barba  Manoli. 

"I  tell  you  to  let  me  alone.  Let  my  mother 
keep  her  blessing  and  her  tears  for  those  who 
want  them!  I  will  not  have  her  near  me.  She 
blackened  our  good  name." 

"Andriko!" 

The  name  was  cried  out  loudly  by  Kyra 
Sophoula,  so  that  all  turned  to  look  at  her. 
"Andriko,  will  you  die  with  such  evil  words  on 
your  lips?  Do  you  not  know  it  is  a  sin?  Let  all 
these  lies  be.  Remember  the  years  when  you 
could  not  do  for  an  hour  without  your  manitsa; 
leave  a  good  word  for  her." 

Suddenly  the  wounded  man,  with  a  violent 
upheaval,  threw  his  whole  body  forward  and 
turned  fast  glazing  eyes  to  the  old  woman. 

"I  leave  her  my  curse!"  he  cried;  "I  was  a 
young  fool  at  that  time  —  I  —  was  —  a  fool — " 

Then  his  head  fell  forward,  and  the  whole 


body  suddenly  bent  at  the  middle.  The  doctor, 
who  was  still  holding  the  pulse,  motioned  to 
the  old  man  to  lay  him  down.  No  one  spoke. 
A  woman  stooped  and  mechanically  wiped 
away  the  rain  which  was  falling  fast  on  the  up- 
turned face  and  trickling  down  into  the  short 
curls. 

Then  some  one  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  called 
out,  "She  is  coming!"  and  all  heads  were 
turned  to  the  figure  which  was  running  towards 
them,  looking  gray  and  blurred  through  the 
driving  rain. 

"Holy  Virgin,  have  mercy  upon  her!"  cried 
Kyra  Sophoula,  putting  out  her  hands  as  though 
to  ward  her  off. 

But  Yannoula  came  straight  on  with  open 
arms. 

"Andriko!"  she  said  softly,  "Andriko,  have 
you  come  back?" 

Kyr  Vangheli  came  quickly  forward  and  stood 
between  her  and  her  son. 

"Let  me  pass,"  she  said,  "let  me  pass;  they 
have  told  me  all;  I  know  there  is  but  little 
time  left." 

Then,  as  the  schoolmaster  still  stood  there, 
she  shivered  once,  and  asked  very  quietly,  "Is 
he  dead, —  my  boy?  Let  me  pass,  please." 

Kyr  Vangheli  stepped  aside  then,  and  Yan- 


274       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

noula  fell  on  her  knees  and  gathered  up  her  child 
into  her  arms. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Yannoula  looked  up, 
and  then  it  seemed  as  if  she  saw  none  of  all  the 
pitying  faces  around  her.  There  was  a  far-away 
look  in  her  eyes  —  almost  a  look  of  peace. 

She  held  her  boy  again  and  rocked  him  to  and 
fro — a  sleeping  child  once  more,  as  in  days  long 
past,  when  she  used  to  lay  him  down  so  gently, 
to  let  the  little  dark  head  touch  the  pillow,  and 
to  unclasp  the  little  clinging  arms;  but  they 
are  little  no  longer,  and  they  trail  limply  on  the 
wet  ground. 

"Andriko,  my  little  child!  my  little  child!*' 

"Kyra  Yannoula!" 

It  was  the  schoolmaster  speaking,  but  she 
took  no  heed. 

"Kyra  Yannoula!"  his  voice  was  firm,  almost 
commanding.  "Listen  to  me  for  a  moment;  I 
must  speak  to  you." 

Obediently  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 

;<  You  have  heard  that  your  son  arrived  from 
Hydra  to-day?"  he  asked. 

She  bent  her  head  silently. 

"You  have  heard  that  his  uncle,  after  all  that 
he  had  promised,  took  back  his  word,  and  died 
leaving  Andriko  without  anything  in  the  world, 


without  even  having  taught  him  a  trade  to  live 
by?" 

Yannoula  bent  lower  till  her  lips  rested  on  the 
dead  boy's  forehead:  "I  have  heard." 

"But,"  resumed  the  schoolmaster,  "what 
you  have  not  heard  — " 

Kyra  Sophoula  seized  hold  of  his  hand,  but 
he  dragged  it  away  and  continued  in  a  clear, 
firm  voice :  — 

"What  you  have  not  heard  is  that  when  this 
thing  happened,  Andriko's  first  thought  was  to 
return  here,  and  that  he  said  to  those  he  knew 
in  Hydra,  'I  shall  go  back  to  my  poor  mother; 
she  will  never  turn  me  away  from  her.*  He  had 
understood,  at  last,  that  all  the  evil  things  he 
had  been  told  about  you  when  he  was  but  a 
child,  without  judgment,  were  lies." 

In  the  deep  silence  which  followed  his  words, 
Yannoula  gave  one  little  gasp,  and  a  strange 
light  came  into  her  eyes. 

Kyr  Vangheli  took  a  step  forward  and  laid 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder  as  she  knelt  there 
before  him. 

"You  have  lost  your  son,  Kyra  Yannoula,  but 
the  great  comfort  remains  that  he  was  returning 
to  you.  When  you  grieve  for  him,  you  must 
always  remember  that  he  was  returning  to  you 
perfectly  sure  of  your  love  and  forgiveness;  and 


276       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

that  however  he  was  misled  formerly,  he  recog- 
nized his  folly  at  the  end.  The  last  words  he 
spoke  here  before  he  died  were,  *I  was  a  fool, 
a  fool!'" 

He  looked  around  him. 

"You,  all  who  heard  him  —  is  it  not  so?" 

"Yes,  —  yes,  surely  those  were  his  last 
words,"  came  in  broken  confirmation  from  all 
sides. 

"My  boy  —  my  boy!" 

His  head  was  on  her  arm  again,  and  her  lips 
pressed  to  his  face.  After  so  many  years  of 
weary  waiting  and  heart-sickness,  her  boy  had 
come  back  to  her. 

"Not  a  fool,"  she  murmured,  "never  a 
fool  —  just  my  only  little  child  whom  they  de- 
ceived, but  who  was  coming  back  to  me." 
Then,  raising  her  eyes,  "God  give  you  long 
years,  you  who  stood  around  him  and  kept  his 
last  words  for  me." 

Later  on,  when  the  tears  had  come  at  last, 
and  Kyra  Sophoula  had  taken  her  home,  Kyr 
Vangheli  spoke  once  more  to  the  bystanders. 

"Remember,  all  of  you,"  he  said,  "remember, 
as  you  would  remember  the  last  command  of 
your  dying  father,  —  never  let  one  word  of  the 
truth  escape  you,  —  never,  not  even  to  the  priest. 
/  will  bear  the  sin." 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    277 

Poros  is  about  as  fond  of  gossip  as  any 
other  island  of  its  size,  and  the  Poriotes  are  not 
famed  for  their  silence,  but  they  kept  this  secret 
well. 


VII 

VASILI 

The  heart  still  answers  to  the  thrill 
That  marks  the  hero  mood. 

RENNELL  ROOD. 

THE  coals  in  the  copper  manghali  were  red 
and  glowing,  yet  the  room  felt  chilly.  It  was 
after  dusk,  on  a  rainy  day  in  October.  The 
rain,  one  of  the  first  of  the  season,  had  poured 
down  since  dawn  with  tropical  violence.  Out- 
side the  house,  which  faced  the  sea,  the  water 
ran  in  swift  rivulets  tinged  with  red  earth  from 
the  hills,  and  sent  muddy  brown  streaks  far 
out  into  the  bay.  The  Sleeper,  and  all  the  lower 
hills,  had  been  invisible  all  day,  enveloped  in 
clouds. 

A  man  sat  crouching  by  the  fire  asleep,  his 
chin  on  his  breast,  his  arms  hanging  limply  at 
each  side,  the  firelight  touching  his  matted  hair 
with  red.  He  was  a  long  thin  man  with  bent 
back  and  a  skin  the  color  of  straw.  From  time 
to  time  he  moaned  a  little  in  his  sleep,  and  in- 
stinctively huddled  up  his  shoulders  to  prevent 
a  rough  old  coat  from  slipping  off. 


VASILI  279 

The  dim  light  showed  a  bare  floor,  white- 
washed walls,  a  few  straw  chairs  and  tall  wooden 
stools.  In  one  corner  stood  a  divan,  over  which 
was  thrown  a  white  linen  cover,  and  on  the  deep 
windowsill  beside  it  stood  a  large  pot  of  sweet 
basil.  On  the  wall  hung  a  little  narrow  cup- 
board with  glass  doors,  surmounted  by  a  cross. 
Three  sacred  icons,  one  of  the  Virgin  and  Child, 
one  of  the  Crucifixion,  and  one  of  St.  Nicholas, 
were  placed  inside,  and  before  it  swung  a  tiny 
hanging-lamp,  swaying  gently  to  and  fro  in  the 
draft  from  the  casement  behind  it.  The  floating 
wick  burned  dimly  behind  the  colored  glass, 
throwing  little  patches  of  red  light  on  the  floor 
below. 

From  the  half -open  door  came  the  murmur  of 
voices,  and  the  clatter  of  dishes.  Gently,  very 
gently,  the  door  was  pushed  open,  and  a  woman 
came  in.  She  held  a  covered  plate  and  trod 
softly.  She  was  rather  stout,  with  a  young  face, 
though  there  were  a  few  white  hairs  among  the 
black,  under  the  folded  kerchief.  The  man 
stirred  and  muttered  as  she  bent  over  him,  then 
opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her.  He  had  a 
hatchet-shaped  face,  a  short  fair  beard,  thick 
matted  hair,  and  light  blue  eyes.  He  stretched 
his  arms  and  tried  to  stand  up,  but  staggered 
and  would  have  fallen  had  it  not  been  for  her 


280       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

strong  arm,  that  settled  him  on  his  low  chair 
again. 

She  laughed  a  little,  but  the  laugh  sounded 
forced. 

"You  walk  like  a  year-old  child,  Vasili.  Sit 
still  for  a  while.  You  have  slept,  and  are  not 
well  awake  yet." 

"What!"  said  the  man  in  a  slow  voice;  "did  I 
sleep?" 

"Aye,  for  near  an  hour;  and  no  wonder,  after 
not  closing  your  eyes  all  last  night.  For  me,  I 
slept,  and  I  woke,  I  slept  and  I  woke  again,  and 
all  the  time  you  were  turning  and  twisting  on 
the  mattress  like  a  fish.  And  yesterday  night, 
and  the  night  before  that,  it  was  the  same  thing. 
What  has  come  to  you,  my  man?" 

As  she  spoke  she  laid  the  covered  plate  on  a 
stool  and  brought  it  close  to  him.  Then  without 
waiting  for  an  answer,  she  returned  to  the  door 
and  whispered  something.  A  little  girl  of  five  or 
six  brought  her  a  thick  tumbler  half  full  of  yel- 
low wine,  tightly  clasped  in  both  small  hands. 
This  the  woman  brought  back  and  set  down  be- 
side the  plate.  She  steadied  the  stool,  and  then 
with  the  iron  pincers  stirred  up  the  ashes  of  the 
manghali,  talking  all  the  time. 

"Kyra  Sophoula  is  in  there;  you  were  asleep, 
you  never  heard  her  come.  She  brought  me  the 


VASILI  281 

herbs  to  boil  down.  I  must  let  them  simmer  for 
four  hours,  she  says;  the  longer  the  better;  then 
that  water  must  get  quite  cold,  and  before  you 
drink  it  I  am  to  mix  with  it  a  little  boiled  cinna- 
mon and  a  little  aniseed,  and  heat  it  up  again. 
There  is  nothing  like  it,  she  says,  to  keep  back 
the  vomiting.  It  cured  my  Cousin  Pericli  after 
he  had  tried  all  sorts  of  doctors'  medicines.  I 
shall  set  the  herbs  on  to-night,  so  that  to- 
morrow the  drink  may  be  ready  in  case  you  re- 
quire it.  To-day  you  have  been  well,  though; 
no  vomiting  at  all;  that  is  one  good  thing  at 
least.  And  now  you  must  eat,  Vasili;  you  must 
eat  to  keep  the  strength  in  you,  to  make  good 
blood." 

The  man  clicked  his  tongue,  which  with  a 
little  backward  toss  of  the  head  means  No. 

"Ah,  but  you  must.  See,  I  have  got  you  some 
lamb,  and  cooked  it  nice  and  brown,  just  as  you 
like  it.  And  the  retsinato  wine  is  not  from  the 
grocer's;  it  is  from  Kyr  Stamo's.  I  sent  Aristidi 
just  now  to  ask  his  wife  Moska  for  a  little.  You 
know  he  is  a  particular  man  about  his  wine,  is 
Kyr  Stamo,  and  always  makes  his  own  retsinato, 
with  not  a  morsel  of  chalk  in  it." 

Then,  as  the  man  sat  there  silently  gazing  in 
a  dazed  way  at  the  meat  before  him,  she  sud- 
denly exclaimed :  — 


282       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"Well,  now,  what  has  happened  to  my  head! 
I  am  forgetting  just  what  will  give  you  a  relish 
for  the  food." 

She  ran  back  to  the  other  room  and  returned 
in  triumph,  holding  a  saucer  with  two  sardines 
on  it.  She  placed  the  saucer  beside  the  plate  of 
meat,  adding  as  she  did  so:  — 

"He  who  has  a  bad  memory  must  needs  have 
good  legs." 

Then  she  stood  beside  him,  expectant. 

But  Vasili  shook  his  head  at  all  she  set  before 
him. 

"Ah,  do  try,  my  man,  do  try,"  she  cried 
piteously;  "see,  take  a  little  wine  first  to  settle 
your  stomach." 

He  took  the  glass  from  her  hand  and  sipped  a 
little.  Then  he  cut  off  a  tiny  morsel  of  meat 
and  put  it  to  his  mouth. 

"Yes,  yes,  that  is  right,  go  on.  Eat  it  all.  It 
is  good  meat  —  of  the  best.  It  will  put  strength 
into  you." 

But  he  pushed  the  plate  away. 

"Even  if  I  were  to  eat  twice  what  you  keep 
forme — "  He  gave  a  hopeless  gesture. 

"But  how  are  you  to  get  your  strength  back 
if  you  will  not  try  to  eat?  You  must  eat,  Vasili, 
you  must." 

Before  he  could  answer,  the  door  which  led 


VASILI  283 

to  the  other  room  was  pushed  open  and  an  old 
woman  walked  in, — a  wiry  little  figure  with 
keen  brown  eyes  set  in  a  mass  of  wrinkles. 

"Of  course  you  must,  neighbor,"  she  said, 
catching  the  last  words.  "Can  the  machine 
work  without  oil,  think  you?  Such  good  things 
as  Calliope  has  prepared  for  you,  too!  Come, 
now,  like  a  sensible  man.  It  is  only  a  resolve 
to  take." 

"Tell  him  so,  tell  him  so,  Kyra  Sophoula," 
chimed  in  the  younger  woman.  "No  sleep  and 
no  food,  is  that  a  life?  At  least  on  the  days  he  is 
not  sick,  he  should  try  to  eat.  The  others  — 
well,  what  can  the  poor  man  do?  If  he  but  put 
a  piece  of  dry  bread  between  his  lips,  up  comes 
everything.  Ah,  Kyra  Sophoula,  and  what 
vomiting!  Black!  —  black  as  coffee  grounds! 
And  then  the  pains!  —  like  knives  inside  of  him, 
he  tells  me,  they  are.  How  is  the  poor  man  to 
work?  How  can  he  stoop  over  his  bench  or  his 
lathe?  Not  a  log  has  he  sawed,  not  a  plank  has 
he  planed,  for  more  than  six  months  now." 

"Not  a  single  one!"  muttered  the  man;  "but 
sitting  here  from  dawn  to  sunset  with  folded 
hands;  it  is  that  which  eats  into  me  so." 

Kyra  Sophoula  nodded  her  head. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  said;  "you  were  ever 
one  for  work,  Vasili;  not  lazy  like  most  of  the 


284       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

men  here,  who  want  even  their  rusks  moistened 
for  them  before  they  will  bite  them.  But  come, 
now,  try  another  bit  of  meat.  The  first  bite 
opens  the  road  for  the  rest." 

But  he  shook  his  head  and  pushed  the  plate 
farther  away,  while  poor  Calliope,  who  had  been 
ironing  till  past  midnight  the  previous  day,  to 
earn  the  money  for  the  small  piece  of  lamb, 
stood  looking  at  it  pitifully. 

Just  then  there  was  a  slight  commotion  in  the 
outer  room,  a  sound  of  talking,  a  man's  voice 
among  the  children's.  A  boy  of  about  eleven, 
with  a  thin  face  and  bright  eyes,  ran  in  through 
the  open  door  and  closed  it  behind  him. 

"Mana,  Kyr  Vangheli  the  master  has  come. 
He  is  in  there;  he  wants  father." 

"Let  him  come  in  at  once,"  exclaimed  Calli- 
ope; "you  should  have  called  me;  have  you  left 
him  there  alone  with  the  little  ones?" 

She  hurried  to  the  door  and  threw  it  wide  open. 
A  tall,  awkward-looking  man  with  a  dark 
mustache  stood  on  the  other  side.  He  had  some 
books  in  his  hand. 

"Please  pass  in,  Kyr  Vangheli,"  she  said, 
flattening  herself  against  the  wall  to  make  room; 
"pass  in,  Vasili  is  here." 

The  schoolmaster  came  in,  and  Vasili  rose 
painfully  to  meet  him. 


VASILI  285 

After  greetings  had  been  exchanged,  the  mas- 
ter took  the  seat  of  honor  anxiously  indicated 
by  Calliope:  the  exact  middle  of  the  linen- 
covered  divan.  As  soon  as  he  was  seated,  she 
disappeared,  only  to  reappear  five  minutes  later, 
with  a  tray  on  which  stood  a  small  glass  jar  of 
tiny  green  lemons  preserved  in  syrup,  two  silver 
spoons,  two  glasses  of  water,  and  a  small  cup  of 
black  coffee.  This  tray  she  presented  to  Kyr 
Vangheli,  standing  before  him  while  he  served 
himself,  not  forgetting  to  say,  "Health  to  you," 
when  he  put  down  his  empty  glass.  He  took  his 
cup  of  coffee  last,  and  settled  himself  against 
the  hard  sofa  pillow,  crossing  his  long  legs. 

"Well,  then,  Vasili,  as  I  was  asking  you,  be- 
fore your  wife  came  in,  what  have  you  decided? 
Will  you  let  the  boy  continue  for  one  year  more? 
He  learns  easily,  and  remembers  what  he  has 
learned.  Also  his  head  is  not  full  of  straw." 

He  took  a  last  sip  of  coffee,  and,  stretching 
out  his  arm,  placed  the  empty  cup  on  the  stool, 
beside  the  plate  of  food. 

Vasili  stirred  uneasily. 

"I  have  wished  to  let  him  stay,"  he  muttered, 
keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  and  rubbing 
with  the  end  of  his  foot  some  of  the  ashes  fallen 
from  the  manghali. 

The  schoolmaster  leaned  forward,  his  elbows 


286       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

on  his  knees,  his  hands  loosely  clasped  before 
him. 

"Let  him  finish  the  third  Greek  class  at  least." 

Vasili  opened  his  mouth  as  though  about  to 
speak,  and  closed  it  again. 

"A  little  more  learning  will  make  him  all  the 
more  useful  to  you  later  on,"  added  the  master. 

Then  Calliope  broke  in. 

"Kyr  Vangheli,  you  must  forgive  me  for  put- 
ting my  word  in,  when  my  man  is  there  to  answer 
you;  but  it  will  not  be  possible,  what  you  speak 
of.  I  am  glad  Aristidi  pleases  you,  and,  God 
knows  that  we  would  work  like  beasts  of  bur- 
den, that  we  would  make  the  impossible  possi- 
ble, to  let  him  have  more  learning  —  but  we 
must  be  two  to  work.  And  Vasili,  as  you  see, 
must  gain  strength  first.  Since  the  day,  just 
before  the  Annunciation  Feast  it  was,  when  I 
went  into  his  workshop  to  tell  him  the  soup  was 
ready,  and  found  him  stretched  across  his  lathe 
in  a  faint,  he  has  not  been  able  to  lift  a  hammer! 
The  orders  come,  and  we  have  to  send  them 
away.  I  do  all  I  can.  I  go  out  to  work  for 
strangers  now.  I  wash  and  iron  and  bake  and 
scour  floors  to  earn  money,  but  can  I  always  be 
at  home  to  mind  him,  and  out  of  the  house 
working  at  the  same  time?  The  little  girls  are 
too  small  to  help:  they  only  add  to  the  work. 


VASILI  287 

Aristidi  must  do  something  now.  He  got  a 
woman's  wage,  one  drachma  and  twenty  lepta 
a  day,  in  the  summer,  at  the  drying  of  the  rais- 
ins, and  he  can  do  the  same  now  that  the  olive- 
picking  will  soon  be  beginning.  It  is  not  much, 
but  it  is  always  something,  and  we  require  it, 
you  see.  He  must  work  now.  Later  on,  we  shall 
see." 

Kyr  Vangheli  looked  inquiringly  at  Vasili. 

"Later  on,"  he  said  slowly;  "later  on  —  yes, 
Calliope  is  right,  the  lad  must  do  something  for 
us,  now  that  I  am  of  no  use." 

"Nay,  it  will  pass,  your  illness,"  put  in  Kyra 
Sophoula  soothingly. 

"Yes,"  assented  Vasili;  "but  time  also 
passes."  Then,  addressing  the  schoolmaster: 
"Tell  me,  please,  if  I  should  be  well  again,  and 
able  to  work,  say  after  the  Christ  Feast,  or  New 
Year,  can  the  boy  return  then  to  school?  Will 
you  receive  him?" 

"Surely." 

"Will  not  the  other  scholars  have  got  too  far 
beyond  him?" 

"The  other  scholars!  — bah!"  And  Kyr 
Vangheli  laughed  derisively;  "what  it  has  taken 
me  three  months  to  drive  into  their  heads,  I 
engage  to  teach  Aristidi  in  three  nights  if  he 
stays  with  me  after  school.  Since  your  Metro," 


288       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

and  he  nodded  at  Kyra  Sophoula,  "I  have  not 
had  such  another  scholar.'* 

"You  are  very  good,"  said  Vasili;  and  his  lips 
trembled  as  he  spoke. 

The  schoolmaster  eyed  him  keenly. 

"What  is  it,  after  all,  that  ails  you?  Are  you 
no  better  than  last  month?  Have  you  seen  the 
doctor,  or  are  you  trying  to  cure  yourself  with 
old  women's  medicines?" 

Calliope  pressed  forward  eagerly,  but  her 
husband  answered  before  she  could  speak. 

"Five  times  I  have  seen  the  doctor." 

"And  what  did  he  tell  you?" 

"Nothing  clear." 

"Did  he  give  you  no  medicines?" 

"Aye,  many,  and  he  changed  them  every 
time,  before  I  had  finished  the  bottles." 

"Well?" 

"They  did  nothing  for  me:  I  will  take  no 
more." 

Kyr  Vangheli  shook  his  head. 

"If  an  older  doctor,  a  cleverer  one,  could 
come,"  he  said  musingly. 

Suddenly  Vasili  lifted  his  eyes,  and  looked 
him  full  in  the  face. 

"No  one  will  come  here,"  he  said;  "but  if  you, 
who  know  many  things,  think  the  doctors  of  the 
town  would  cure  me  sooner,  then  I  can  go  there." 


VASILI  289 

"To  the  town!  — to  Athens?"  gasped  Calli- 
ope. 

"Yes.  I  have  thought  of  it  now  many  nights 
that  I  have  not  slept.  This  is  no  life  that  I  lead ! 
Why  should  I  not  go  to  Athens?  it  is  only  four 
hours  in  the  steamer.  There  is  a  little  money 
left,  and  it  need  not  cost  much.  Yanni,  my  cousin 
there,  who  is  a  builder,  will  give  me  a  mattress 
for  two  nights." 

"Do  you  know  Athens?"  asked  Kyr  Vangheli 
thoughtfully. 

"I  have  been  there  once  with  my  father,  — 
God  rest  him !  —  seventeen  years  ago.  It  is  a 
fine  place  with  wide  streets  and  big  marble 
palaces,  and  many  people.  There  at  least  one 
can  find  clever  men  who  will  tell  me  what  to  do, 
and  I  shall  do  it  and  be  well  once  more.  It  is 
simple." 

So  simple  that  his  poor  wife  gazed  at  him  in 
awe,  as  though  he  had  talked  of  starting  for 
America  on  the  moment.  Kyra  Sophoula  patted 
her  shoulder  encouragingly. 

"Do  not  trouble  yourself:  it  is  nothing.  There 
is  Metro  also  in  Athens;  and  when  your  man 
decides  to  go,  we  must  have  a  letter  written  to 
the  lad.  He  will  find  out  which  doctor  is  the  best, 
and  then  meet  Kyr  Vasili  at  Piraeus  and  help 
him  in  all." 


290       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"That  is  a  good  thought,  Kyra  Sophoula," 
assented  the  schoolmaster.  "  We  must  certainly 
write  to  Metro.  By  this  time  he  is  sure  to  know 
the  town  well." 

But  Calliope  was  not  reconciled. 

"It  is  so  far,"  she  said,  "and  cold  just  now 
on  the  sea;  you  do  not  know,  you  who  talk,  how 
weak  he  is."  Then,  turning  apologetically  to 
the  master:  "Forgive  me,  Kyr  Vangheli,  but 
you  do  not  see  him  often:  you  cannot  know  as 
I  do.  Is  it  not  so?  Some  days  he  is  better,  but 
others  he  can  scarcely  walk  and  his  legs  tremble 
like  an  old  man's.  If  I  do  not  hold  him,  he  falls. 
Here  in  Poros,  —  well,  there  are  friends  and 
neighbors,  he  could  be  helped  upon  the  steamer: 
but  when  he  arrives  there,  with  the  noise  and 
the  bustle  and  the  fighting  of  the  boatmen  — 
what  would  he  do?  Some  one  would  push  him 
into  the  sea  before  you  could  say  'Amen'!" 

"Wife,  wife,"  protested  Vasili,  "what  are 
you  saying?  I  shall  wait  on  the  steamer  till  the 
many  have  gone  by,  and  then  I  can  walk  quite 
well.  You  are  thinking  of  when  I  fell  uncon- 
scious; I  am  better  now." 

But  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "I 
know  what  I  am  saying." 

Kyr  Vangheli  rose  slowly  from  the  divan,  and 
came  forward,  lank  and  awkward. 


VASILI  291 

"Kyra  Calliope,"  he  said,  "I  will  write  to 
Metro  and  tell  him  to  inquire,  from  those  who 
know,  about  the  cleverest  doctor.  For  the  jour- 
ney, do  not  torment  yourself.  I  have  some 
business  in  Athens  which  must  be  seen  to;  I  have 
put  it  off  too  long  already  and  must  go  now, 
before  school  begins  again.  So,  if  Vasili  likes, 
we  can  go  together  next  week  and  return  together 
when  our  business  is  over.  What  do  you  say, 
Vasili?  Shall  we  be  travelers,  you  and  I?" 

"I  thank  you,  Kyr  Vangheli,"  answered  the 
sick  man,  after  an  almost  imperceptible  pause; 
"yes,  I  will  go  with  you." 

Now  Vasili  had  always  been  a  man  of  slow 
thought,  and  slow  but  sure  decision.  The  Po- 
riotes  said,  "Vasili  measures  his  cloth  five 
times  over,  for  once  that  he  cuts  it,  but  when 
he  cuts,  he  cuts  straight."  So  Calliope  knew 
there  was  no  moving  him  from  a  decision  once 
taken,  and  made  few  further  objections.  But 
when  Kyr  Vangheli  had  left  them,  and  she  stood 
at  the  open  house  door  with  Kyra  Sophoula, 
looking  after  him  as  he  disappeared  in  the  dis- 
tance, with  bent  head  and  long  awkward  strides, 
the  tears  were  running  down  her  face. 

"Do  not  spoil  your  heart's  content,"  said  the 
old  woman;  "Kyr  Vangheli  is  a  good  man,  he 
will  take  care  of  your  man  on  the  way." 


292       TALES  OF  A  (GREEK  ISLAND 

"He  is  a  good  man,  yes,  I  know  it;  but,  oh, 
my  poor  Vasili,  what  will  he  do  without  me? 
And  who  knows  if  next  week  he  may  not  be 
worse?" 

"But  since  he  told  you  himself  that  he  is  bet- 
ter now?"  hazarded  Kyra  Sophoula. 

"Does  a  man  spend  good  money  to  go  all  the 
way  to  Athens  to  see  a  doctor,  when  he  feels 
better?" 

"Nonsense!"  answered  the  old  woman 
sharply;  "do  not  put  evil  in  your  mind." 

Calliope  tightened  her  lips  and  spoke  no  more. 
A  few  moments  later  she  went  back  to  Vasili  to 
persuade  him  to  come  to  bed,  but  he  would  not 
move.  She  looked  around  helplessly. 

"Father,"  said  the  boy  Aristidi,  coming  to 
her  rescue,  "why  will  you  not  lie  down?  You 
can  sleep  to-night;  there  is  nothing  to  trouble 
you.  Two  great  things  are  decided:  first,  you 
will  go  to  Athens  to  get  well,  and  next,  I  am  to 
work  at  the  olive-picking,  and  bring  home  money 
every  week.  Come,"  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  his 
father's  arm. 

"Let  me  be,"  murmured  the  man;  "go  you 
to  bed;  I  shall  follow  soon." 

When  they  left  him  he  tried  to  think  of  many 
things  which  were  buzzing  in  his  brain,  but  the 
thoughts  would  not  form  themselves;  they  re- 


VASILI  293 

mained  vague  and  hazy.  He  felt  curiously  cold. 
A  dizziness  came  over  him,  and  for  a  few  mo- 
ments he  could  not  remember  where  he  was. 
A  dull  pain  shot  through  him  once  or  twice,  but 
there  was  a  strange  fatigue  that  numbed  even 
the  physical  agony.  Everything  seemed  far 
away,  and  when  he  leaned  his  head  on  his 
hand  for  a  moment  he  could  almost  imagine  that 
they  did  not  touch,  that  there  was  a  great 
space  between  the  two.  He  looked  at  his  foot 
stretched  before  him  and  wondered  at  its  weight; 
and  it  was  some  time  after  he  thought  of  moving 
it  that  he  succeeded  in  doing  so. 

The  great  clock  of  the  Naval  School  struck 
the  hours,  the  sentinels  on  duty  exchanged  their 
cry,  and  the  night  lengthened.  Still  he  sat  there 
by  the  cold  manghali,  his  head  sunk  on  his 
breast,  his  clasped  hands  hanging  between  his 
knees,  and  never  moved  till  long  past  midnight. 

It  was  about  a  fortnight  later,  and  four  days 
since  Vasili  with  Kyr  Vangheli  had  left  in  the 
steamer  for  Athens.  The  first  rains  were  over, 
and  it  was  a  perfect  autumn  morning,  one  of 
those  which  come  often  in  Poros,  blue,  breezy, 
sunny,  and  cool.  Calliope,  with  the  two  little 
girls  Athena  and  Elenitsa,  was  returning  from 
St.  Stathi,  a  tiny  chapel  up  the  rocky  path 


294       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

beyond  the  Little  Spring.  She  had  wished  to 
light  a  candle  for  her  husband's  cure  and  safe 
return,  and  it  was  too  far  to  walk  to  the  Monas- 
tery. Besides,  she  had  worked  hard  these  last 
days,  and  her  feet  were  tired.  The  Holy  Virgin 
would  understand,  she  thought. 

A  little  before  reaching  the  spring,  on  her 
way  back,  she  sat  down  to  rest  under  an  old 
pine,  from  whose  gaping  wounds  the  resin  had 
been  slowly  dripping  all  night  into  the  hollowed- 
out  cavity  of  the  stone  placed  ready  to  receive 
it.  Below  her  was  a  dry  torrent  bed  filled  with 
oleanders,  and  on  its  farther  side  the  steep  gray 
rocks  towered  almost  perpendicularly,  their 
summits  crowned  with  young  pines,  golden 
green  in  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun.  Below  the 
belt  of  trees,  here  and  there,  a  single  hardy  pine 
sprang  from  the  very  heart  of  the  rock  itself. 
Heavy  white  clouds  were  blown  rapidly  across 
the  deep  blue  of  the  sky,  broke,  dissolved,  sepa- 
rated into  myriads  of  little  ones,  and  formed 
again  into  snowy  masses. 

The  children  ran  about  while  their  mother  sat 
there  resting.  They  picked  the  red  berries  off 
the  laden  lentisk  bushes,  biting  them  for  the 
sake  of  their  pungent  pistachio-like  taste;  they 
played  ball  with  the  dry  round  bulbs  of  the  dog 
onion;  they  rolled  over  on  the  soft  brown  carpet 


VASILI  295 

of  the  pine  needles,  in  the  dark  spots  under  the 
trees,  where  the  sunlight  fell  in  tiny  flecks 
through  the  swaying  branches,  and  where  the 
first  pink  cyclamen  buds  were  just  showing 
through. 

There  were  no  trees  but  pines  on  this  road  of 
the  Little  Spring,  —  pines  of  all  shapes  and  sizes, 
from  the  old  trees  with  their  rugged,  deeply 
scored  bark,  showing  the  red  wood  underneath, 
their  masses  of  dark  green  spikes  making  round 
velvety  masses  in  the  distance,  the  younger 
ones  with  their  smooth  gray  trunks,  their  slim 
branches  bending  under  the  weight  of  their 
cones,  to  the  little  round  pale-green  baby  pines. 
The  wind  from  the  sea  rushed  with  a  roaring 
sound  through  the  branches,  and  the  warm  res- 
inous odor  was  everywhere. 

Calliope  got  up  to  continue  her  way  home, 
calling  the  children  to  her  as  she  went.  They 
walked  down  the  narrow  path  past  the  Little 
Spring,  and  along  the  ravine  till  Poros  with  its 
white  houses  appeared  before  them  in  the  fork 
of  the  hills.  Calliope  walked  along  silently, 
holding  a  child  by  each  hand,  for  the  ravine 
was  deep  just  there,  and  the  fall  abrupt.  Her 
man  had  been  gone  four  whole  days,  and  she 
had  received  no  news  from  him.  This  in  itself 
was  not  disquieting,  for  letters  are  rare  occur- 


296       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

rences  in  Poros;  but  she  was  anxious  to  hear 
what  the  great  doctors  in  Athens  had  said.  She 
wondered  whether,  being  so  clever,  they  would 
be  likely  to  cure  instantaneously;  whether  Vasili 
would  return  looking  already  strong  and  well. 

At  the  bridge  suddenly  she  heard  her  name 
called. 

"Kyra  Calliope!  Kyra  Calliope!" 

A  girl  about  seventeen,  a  pretty  girl  with  pink 
cheeks  and  black  hair,  came  running  to  meet 
her.  It  was  Maroussa,  Kyra  Sophoula's  grand- 
daughter, holding  a  little  boy  by  the  hand;  a 
pale  child  carefully  dressed  in  a  white  sailor 
suit. 

"Many  years  may  you  live,  Kyra  Calliope! 
I  was  just  thinking  of  you  and  wishing  to  see 
you.  I  went  to  your  house,  but  none  of  the 
neighbors  knew  where  you  had  gone.'* 

"What  is  it?" 

"My  grandmother  had  a  letter  from  Metro 
in  Athens;  it  was  left  for  us  at  the  grocer's,  and 
they  only  gave  it  to  her  this  morning." 

"And  he  says?" 

"That  he  saw  your  Vasili,  who  was  well  — 
that  is  to  say,  the  journey  had  not  tired  him  too 
much." 

"What  did  the  doctor  say  to  him?" 

"Metro  did  not  know  that  yet;  he  only  writes 


VASIL1  297 

that  he  had  been  told  of  a  very  good  doctor, 
and  found  out  where  he  lived,  andVasili  was  to 
go  to  his  house  yesterday  morning  at  ten." 

"Yesterday!  Then  perhaps  it  is  to-day  he 
will  return.  Once  he  has  seen  the  doctor,  why 
should  he  stay  any  longer?  Let  us  walk  quickly; 
the  steamer  returns  early  to-day.  You,  Athena 
and  Elenitsa,  take  the  little  boy  between  you, 
and  walk  on  in  front."  Then,  turning  to  Ma- 
roussa,  "It  is  the  little  boy,  the  son  of  the  lady? " 

"Yes;  a  good  little  child,  but  so  sickly.  He 
has  fever  constantly,  and  no  medicines  will  stop 
it;  the  quinine  that  little  one  has  taken!  And 
only  from  me  will  he  take  it.  That  is  why 
the  lady  begged  me  to  stay  so  long.  The  doctor 
says  the  child  must  go  away  to  another  place, 
where  there  are  no  fevers.  His  father  is  an  offi- 
cer, you  know,  and  the  lady  says  they  will  be 
ordering  him  to  Larissa  soon,  and  then,  just 
think,  Kyra  Calliope,  she  wants  me  to  go  with 
them." 

"You!  — to  Larissa?" 

"Yes;  the  child  is  only  good  and  pleased  with 
me;  but  I  do  not  think  my  grandmother  will  let 
me  go." 

"It  is  far,  for  a  maiden,"  said  Kyra  Calliope. 
Then,  without  slackening  her  pace:  "Why  is  the 
child  dressed  so  —  like  the  sailors  at  the  Naval 


298       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

School?  Is  he  perhaps  to  become  a  sailor  also 
when  he  is  grown  up?" 

Maroussa  laughed.  "I  do  not  know.  But 
they  mean  nothing,  the  clothes;  they  always 
dress  little  boys  so  in  the  town.  The  lady  told 
me." 

But  Calliope  scarcely  listened;  she  walked  on 
faster  and  faster,  till  the  children  could  not  keep 
up  the  same  pace,  and  lagged  behind. 

"Kyra  Calliope,"  said  the  girl  at  last,  looking 
at  her,  "leave  the  little  ones  to  me.  I  will  bring 
them  back  to  your  house." 

Calliope  hesitated.  "Can  you?"  she  asked. 

"Surely.  It  will  amuse  the  child  to  have  them 
with  him."  Then,  dropping  on  her  knees  be- 
side the  little  boy:  "Costaki,  my  golden  one, 
you  will  walk  with  the  good  little  maids,  will 
you  not?" 

Costaki  turned  his  pale  little  face  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  sturdy  maidens. 

"Yes,"  he  said  very  slowly,  "I  want  them." 

Calliope  nodded  and  strode  on,  calling  out 
over  her  shoulder:  "You,  Athena,  be  a  good  girl 
and  take  care  of  Elenitsa." 

Once  alone  she  nearly  ran.  In  a  few  seconds 
she  had  crossed  the  Narrow  Beach,  passed  the 
Naval  School,  and  reached  the  first  houses  of 
the  village.  There  was  scarcely  any  one  about. 


VASILI  299 

The  men  were  at  work,  the  women  busy  in- 
doors, and  the  children  at  school.  A  sailor 
passed  her,  swinging  a  bundle  as  he  walked. 
Two  hens  scuttled  along,  frightened  at  her  rapid 
approach.  A  puppy  ran  barking  after  some 
pigeons  in  the  oft-deceived  yet  constantly  re- 
curring hope  that  he  might  catch  them  at  last, 
and  an  old  man  was  hanging  up  a  net  to  dry 
in  the  sun. 

Calliope  looked  out  towards  the  sea.  There 
were  no  small  boats  about.  The  steamer  was 
therefore  either  not  yet  in  sight  or  had  arrived 
some  time  ago.  When  at  last  she  could  see  her 
own  house,  it  seemed  to  her  that  five  or  six  peo- 
ple were  standing  outside  the  door,  but  her  sight 
was  not  very  good,  and  she  could  not  distin- 
guish the  faces.  There  was  a  stir  among  them, 
and  one  man  detached  himself  from  the  group 
and  advanced  towards  her. 

"Kyr  Vangheli!  You!  Then  the  steamer  has 
come?" 

"Some  time  ago,  yes,  —  it  came  early." 

"AndVasili?" 

"Yes  —  yes,  —  come  in,  Kyra  Calliope,  come 
in.  Kyra  Sophoula  is  here,  and  the  neighbors. 
Come  into  the  house." 

His  voice  was  husky  and  the  words  were  in- 
distinct. Some  women  hurried  forward.  One, 


300       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

stumbling  over  a  large  stone,  fell  suddenly  in  a 
sitting  posture. 

Calliope  laughed  out  loud  —  a  nervous  laugh. 

Kyra  Sophoula  caught  hold  of  her  hand. 
"Ah,  do  not  laugh,  my  poor  one!  for  God's 
name,  do  not  laugh!'* 

Calliope  turned  round  sharply.  "Why  should 
I  not  laugh?  Why?" 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  her 
eyes  changed  as  a  man's  might  when  he  feels 
the  first  prick  of  the  knife  at  his  breast. 

"  Vasili?"  she  asked,  —  "Vasili?" 

There  was  silence. 

She  turned  fiercely  to  the  schoolmaster. 

"Where  is  my  man?  You  took  him  with  you. 
Where  is  he?  Is  he  ill?  Is  he  worse?" 

For  a  moment  Kyr  Vangheli  did  not  answer. 
He  stood  before  her,  his  lips  tightly  closed,  his 
breath  coming  in  short  quick  gusts  through  his 
nostrils. 

At  last  he  stammered:  "He  —  no  —  not  ill  — 
but  it  is  bad  news !  very  bad !  It  was  an  evil  hour 
that  I  took  him  with  me." 

Calliope  gave  one  piercing  shriek,  and  then 
in  a  husky  whisper,  her  hands  at  her  mouth: 
"Is  he  dead,  my  man?" 

Kyr  Vangheli  bent  his  head. 

"Where?  In  here?  In  the  steamer?", 


VASILI  801 

"No." 
-"In  Athens?" 

"No." 

"Speak,  man,  speak!  If  you  are  a  Christian, 
speak!" 

"Kyra  Calliope,  you  must  have  courage. 
Poor  Vasili  —  God  rest  him !  —  is  drowned ! " 

She  stared  at  him  with  wide-open,  shining 
eyes.  "Drowned!  drowned!  Where?" 

"At  Phalerum,  near  Athens." 

"Oh,  my  God!  —  drowned!  —  drowned!"  she 
repeated  in  a  dazed  voice.  Then  suddenly:  "Are 
you  lying  to  me?  Drowned?  But  how?  when? 
How  is  it  possible?  Did  he  fall  from  a  boat? 
But  he  can  swim  like  a  fish;  you  know  it." 

No  one  spoke,  but  two  of  the  women  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"Tell  me,"  she  cried;  "tell  me,  then;  for  the 
name  of  God,  tell  me." 

Kyr  Vangheli  opened  his  lips  twice,  but  no 
words  came  through  them.  At  last,  in  a  low 
voice:  "God  be  merciful  to  you,  Kyra  Calliope," 
he  said,  "  if  a  man  will  not  swim,  if  he  ties  a  stone 
round  his  middle,  how  can  he  not  drown?" 

Calliope  sprang  forward.  She  thrust  her  hand 
roughly  under  the  master's  chin  and  forced  his 
eyes  to  meet  hers. 
•  "Do  you  mean  — ?" 


302       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  "I — I  saw  the  cord — " 

Then  she  fell  back  in  a  heap  into  the  arms  of 
the  women  behind  her,  and  they  bore  her  into 
the  house. 

When  she  regained  consciousness  she  pushed 
them  impatiently  aside,  and  sat  up  on  the  divan 
where  they  had  placed  her,  her  hair  falling  over 
her  eyes,  the  water  they  had  poured  over  her 
streaming  down  her  face. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  cried;  "what  have  they 
done  with  him?  Where  have  they  put  my 
man?" 

Kyr  Vangheli,  who  had  been  standing  at  the 
open  door,  came  close  to  her.  He  tried  to  tread 
softly,  but  the  old  boards  creaked  under  his 
feet. 

"Capetan  Leftheri  was  at  Piraeus  with  his 
boat.  I  begged  him  —  and  he  said  he  would 
bring  —  Vasili.  I  came  on  to  tell  you.  You  see, 
in  the  steamer  they  would  not  —  that  is  — 
they-" 

"When  will  the  boat  arrive?" 

"The  wind  is  favorable;  if  they  started  when 
they  meant  to,  perhaps  in  half  an  hour  from 
now." 

"Sit  here,"  she  commanded;  "sit  here  close 
to  me,  I  cannot  hear  you  well,  —  there  is  a  sing- 
ing in  my  ears,  —  and  tell  me  all  you  know; 


VASILI  303 

all;  everything.  Some  'one  told  me,  I  think,  — 
I  forget  who,  —  that  he  went  to  the  doctor?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Kyr  Vangheli,  seating  himself  on 
the  divan  where  she  was  pointing.  "Yes,  he 
went  at  ten  yesterday  morning.  It  was  to  a 
good  doctor  he  went,  one  of  the  best,  but  a  hard 
man,  —  if  only  I  had  gone  with  him,  —  but, 
you  see,  I  had  to  be  at  the  Ministry  just  then, 
about  the  new  classbooks.  When  later  on  Va- 
sili  did  not  come  to  the  coffee-house  where  I  had 
told  him  to  meet  me,  and  I  did  not  find  him 
at  Yanni's,  his  cousin's,  I  went  to  the  doctor's 
house,  and  asked  for  him.  He  had  left  there 
long  ago  in  the  morning,  they  told  me.  Then  I 
saw  the  doctor  himself  — " 

"Well?" 

"He  was  a  young  man  —  in  a  hurry  to  go  out. 
He  told  me  all  —  all  he  had  told  Vasili  him- 
self." 

"What  —  all?  Speak  then." 

"Kyra  Calliope,  you  could  not  have  kept  him 
here  long,  even  without  this.  The  doctor  said 
he  had  found  him  very  ill  —  most  dangerously 
ill.  There  was  a  tumor,  a  very  bad  kind.  I  can- 
not explain  now  —  but  the  doctor  had  told  him 
he  must  have  an  operation  at  once;  must  have 
the  tumor  taken  away." 

"  Well  —  even  then  —  he  was  not  one  to  be 


304        TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

afraid,  my  man!  Would  this  operation  have 
made  him  quite  well?" 

"No,  it  was  a  tumor  that  grows  again." 

"Ah!  — and  then?" 

"The  doctor  said  he  might  take  it  out  again 
a  second  time,  but  a  third,  no.  Then  he  told  me 
Vasili  had  paid  him,  and  gone  away.  I  asked 
him  if  he  were  a  Christian,  to  let  a  man  go  out 
alone  with  such  words  in  his  ears.  But  he  looked 
at  me  as  though  I  were  mad;  and  I  left  him  and 
ran  out  of  the  house  to  look  for  Vasili.  Not  that 
I  put  evil  in  my  mind,  but  I  wanted  to  find  him, 
to  speak  a  good  word  to  the  poor  man,  to  tell 
him  there  were  other  doctors  besides  this  one, 
to  see  what  could  be  done.  The  servant  at  the 
door  remembered  when  I  asked  him.  He  had 
seen  Vasili  cross  the  road,  he  said,  to  a  little 
paper  shop  opposite.  I  went  to  the  shop,  and 
they  told  me  yes,  a  countryman  had  been  there 
towards  noon  and  had  bought  a  sheet  of  paper 
and  an  envelope.  He  had  borrowed  a  pen,  and 
had  sat  there  for  some  time  thinking,  and  then 
had  written,  holding  the  paper  on  his  knees. 
They  had  not  noticed  how  he  looked.  But  a  boy 
told  me  that  he  had  asked  him  when  the  steam 
trams  left  for  Phalerum.  So  from  there  I  ran  to 
the  station  in  front  of  the  Academy.  The  man 
who  sells  the  tickets  knew  nothing.  He  was  busy 


VASILI  305 

counting.  'A  countryman?  —  thin? — pale? 
Do  I  know?  There  are  twenty  such.  Leave  me 
in  peace,  brother.'  But  at  last,  after  I  had  asked 
many,  a  little  shoeblack  remembered  him:  that 
his  face  was  the  color  of  a  lemon  and  that  he 
stooped.  He  had  seen  him  take  a  ticket  and 
leave  by  the  one  o'clock  tram." 

Calliope  shivered.  "All  alone!  —  my  poor 
man!" 

"It  was  dark  by  that  time,"  went  on  the 
schoolmaster,  "and  the  steam  tram  was  just 
leaving  —  nearly  empty.  I  got  in;  there  was  no 
one  in  the  compartment  but  a  young  man.  I 
suppose  I  looked  strange,  for  he  spoke  to  me  and 
I  told  him  the  things  as  they  had  happened. 
It  appeared  he  was  a  doctor  also,  but  a  young 
one,  who  was  studying,  and  he  understood  all, 
and  nodded  his  head  quickly  many  times  while 
I  spoke,  saying,  'Yes,  yes;  I  know;  I  see.'  He 
had  a  good  heart,  too,  for  at  once  he  told  me  he 
would  come  with  me  to  look  for  Vasili.  He  had 
no  business  to  do  at  Phalerum,  he  said;  he  was 
just  going  down  to  take  the  air.  Well,  when  we 
got  there,  by  the  sea  at  old  Phalerum,  we  asked 
right  and  left  at  the  tram  station,  at  the  coffee- 
houses, at  the  little  inns  on  the  cliffs.  No  one 
had  seen  him,  —  no  one.  We  did  not  leave  one 
place  untried.  But  it  was  no  good.  At  last  when 


306       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

we  went  down  on  the  shore,  there  at  once  we 
saw  his  clothes  in  a  heap  beside  a  big  stone  — ' 

"His  clothes?5*  began  Calliope,  with  stiff 
lips,  —  "only  his  clothes?  But  you  said  — " 

"Hush!  wait.  After  we  found  these,  we  went 
round  the  rocks  looking  everywhere.  The  dark- 
ness had  fallen  and  the  stones  were  so  wet  we 
slipped  often.  But  we  rose  again  and  ran  on, 
and  called  his  name,  but  no  one  answered.  The 
doctor  said  perhaps  he  had  gone  for  a  swim  and 
had  been  tired  afterwards  and  had  fallen  asleep 
somewhere,  and  that  this  was  great  foolishness, 
for  he  would  take  cold.  We  called  louder  as  we 
went,  but  still  there  was  no  answer.  It  was 
I  who  first  saw  a  whitish  heap  half  in  the  water, 
behind  a  large  rock.  We  both  stopped  short, 
and  he,  the  doctor,  ran  on,  and  I  saw  him  bend- 
ing over  the  heap  and  lifting  it  very  softly. 
Poor  Vasili  had  been  dead  some  hours,  he  said. 
He  had  tied  a  stone  or  something  heavy  round 
his  middle  with  a  thin  cord,  but  it  had  broken, 
and  the  body  had  floated  out  there.  I  saw  the 
cord  hanging  round  him,  broken  and  knotted. 
The  letter  for  you  we  found  afterwards  near  his 
clothes.  There  was  a  big  stone  over  it,  so  that 
the  wind  should  not  blow  it  away.  Here  it 
is." 

He  put  a  letter  in  her  shaking  hands,  and  she 


VASILI  307 

sat  there  gazing  at  it  without  attempting  to 
open  it. 

Kyra  Sophoula  bent  over  her.  "See  what  he 
tells  you,  my  poor  one!" 

Calliope  looked  at  the  crumpled,  earth- 
stained  envelope,  the  straggling  address  written 
in  blotted  violet  ink,  then  at  the  grave,  pitying 
face  above  her,  and  suddenly  thrust  the  letter 
into  the  schoolmaster's  hand. 

"Read  it,  you,"  she  said. 

He  opened  it  carefully.  It  was  not  a  very 
long  letter;  two  pages  and  a  half  of  thin  ruled 
paper.  He  turned  it  over. 

"Read,"  she  repeated  hoarsely,  "read." 

And  he  read :  — 

MY  WIFE:  —  This  is  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
going  to  drown  myself  because  I  have  thought 
that  it  will  be  better  for  us  all  that  I  should  do 
so.  The  doctor  here  in  the  town  told  me  this: 
that  I  have  a  great  torment  in  my  vitals;  a  bad 
evil  that  grows  and  grows  again.  He  told  me 
that  it  could  be  cut  out.  I  asked  him  what  it 
would  cost,  and  he  said  nothing,  if  we  could  not 
pay.  But  that  when  the  wound  was  healed  and  I 
came  home,  I  must  be  very  careful  and  live  well: 
not  work,  not  tire  myself,  and  eat  good  food  al- 
ways, food  that  gives  strength.  But  the  worst 


308       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

is  he  did  not  think  I  should  ever  get  well.  After 
six  months,  one  year,  two  years  even,  —  he 
could  not  tell,  —  the  evil  would  grow  again,  and 
again  have  to  be  cut  out,  till  the  time  would 
come  when  it  would  reach  too  far  and  could  not 
be  cut  out  any  more.  So  I  have  thought,  if  all 
this  happens  as  he  says,  —  and  Metro  told  me 
he  was  a  very  great  doctor,  —  that  it  will  eat 
up  all  the  little  money  we  have  left,  and  that 
you  and  the  boy  will  have  to  kill  yourselves  with 
work,  —  and  for  what?  —  to  feed  one  who  will 
die,  after  all,  in  two  or  three  years'  time.  I  have 
thought  that  Aristidi  would  forget  all  his  learn- 
ing and  grow  up  an  ignorant  man  like  myself. 
That  perhaps  even  after  I  died,  so  much  money 
would  have  been  spent  on  good  food  and  medi- 
cines and  journeys  back  and  forth  to  the  town 
that  you  would  remain  with  debts  to  pay,  and 
might  never  be  able  to  lay  aside  a  little  dowry 
for  our  girls.  So  you  see  if  I  live  it  will  ruin  us, 
while  if  you  have  none  of  these  useless  expenses, 
and  are  free  to  think  and  work,  there  will  be 
enough  for  you  all.  You  can  send  the  boy  to 
school  for  some  time  yet,  and  when  he  is  grown 
up  he  will  be  a  lettered  man,  and  able  to  work 
for  you  and  his  sisters  better  than  I  could.  Also 
he  will  be  a  widow's  son,  and  will  not  be  forced 
to  serve  in  the  Navy.  All  these  things  I  have 


VASILI  309 

thought  of,  and  I  do  not  think  I  am  commit- 
ting a  sin;  and  if  I  am  —  it  is  mine.  Remember 
that  we  owe  your  Cousin  Chryssoula  fourteen 
okes  of  oil  from  last  April.  Kyr  Apostoli  the 
baker  owes  me  thirty-one  drachmas  for  some 
planks  which  I  sold  him.  He  is  an  honest  man; 
he  will  pay  you.  Give  my  blessing  to  our  son, 
and  tell  him  to  take  care  of  you  and  his  sisters. 
And  tell  Athena  and  Elenitsa  to  be  good  maid- 
ens, and  to  obey  you  and  their  brother;  and  you, 
wife,  forgive  me. 

Your  husband, 

VASILI. 

When  Kyr  Vangheli  came  to  the  end  of  the 
letter,  his  hands  were  trembling  and  the  tears 
were  running  down  his  cheeks.  He  wiped  them 
away  quietly  and  unashamed,  and  held  out  the 
letter  to  Calliope. 

She  seized  it  and  burst  into  wild  sobs,  hold- 
ing it  tightly  to  her  breast  and  rocking  back- 
wards and  forwards. 

"My  poor  man!  my  poor  man!  I  would  have 
worked  all  my  life  as  a  slave  to  keep  you  with  us. 
My  man!  my  man!" 

In  a  few  moments  she  rose,  her  eyes  still 
streaming,  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  little 
hanging  shrine.  She  opened  the  glass  door  and, 


310       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

slightly  lifting  the  icon  of  the  Crucifixion,  placed 
the  letter  underneath  the  heavy  wooden  frame. 

"His  children  will  find  it  there,"  she  said. 

Kyra  Sophoula  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
"He  was  a  good  man;  God  rest  him." 

"But,"  objected  Moska  timidly,  "will  not 
many  say  it  was  a  sin,  and  that  we  must  wait 
for  God's  time  to  die?" 

"He  was  a  good  man,"  repeated  Kyr  Van- 
gheli  gravely,  "and  a  very  brave  man.  Let  no 
one  speak  ill  of  him." 

The  door  was  pushed  open  suddenly  and 
a  young  man,  bareheaded,  and  breathing  as 
though  he  had  been  running  fast,  came  in  and 
whispered  something  to  Kyr  Vangheli.  The  lat- 
ter wheeled  round  and  questioned  him  in  an 
undertone.  The  man  nodded  his  head  two  or 
three  times  affirmatively. 

"Yes  —  yes;  he  is  there.  He  sent  me." 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Calliope.  "Have  they  — 
is  it  — the  boat?" 

"Yes,"  Kyr  Vangheli  answered;  "the  boat 
has  come,  and  Panayi  here  says  — " 

"I  must  go  to  him,"  interrupted  Calliope 
wildly,  starting  towards  the  door;  "I  must  see 
him." 

Kyr  Vangheli  held  her  back.  "You  shall  go; 
yes;  but  listen  first.  I  saw  Pappa  Thanassi  as 


VASILI  311 

soon  as  I  arrived,  about  the  funeral,  and  he  — 
he  says  —  he  is  sorry  —  but  he  — " 

"You  mean  he  will  not  bury  my  man?" 

"He  is  afraid  of  the  bishop.  He  dare  not,  he 
says." 

"He  dare  not?  He,  Pappa  Thanassi!  he,  who 
knew  Vasili  since  he  was  a  boy;  he,  who  mar- 
ried us;  he,  who  christened  our  children!  He 
dare  not?"  She  broke  into  wild  weeping,  her 
arms  across  her  face. 

"My  man!  oh,  my  man!  my  good  man!  Will 
they  thrust  him  into  the  ground  like  a  dog, 
without  cross  or  candle?  without  a  priest  to 
read  a  prayer?  Oh,  my  God,  help  me!  Oh,  my 
God!  my  God!" 

Kyr  Vangheli  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
"Hush,  Kyra  Calliope,  hush.  God  will  help  you. 
He  has  helped  you.  Do  not  cry  so;  listen  to  me. 
In  the  steamer  coming  from  Piraeus,  now,  this 
morning,  there  was  a  young  priest;  at  least  not 
quite  a  priest,  he  is  only  a  deacon  yet.  I  feared 
something  of  this  kind  from  Pappa  Thanassi, 
and  I  asked  this  deacon  about  it.  *  Perhaps 
your  priest  will  refuse,'  he  said;  *I  do  not  know; 
some  do.  It  is  the  rule  of  the  church,  of  course. 
But  to  me  it  seems  if  there  be  any  sin,  all  the 
more  need  of  forgiveness,  and  of  the  priest  to 
pray  for  it.  If  you  can  get  no  one  else,  I  will 


312       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

come  with  you  and  read  a  prayer,  and  let  what 
will  happen/'1 

Calliope  had  ceased  sobbing.  She  bent  for- 
ward eagerly  drinking  in  his  words.  "And  he 
is—?" 

"Yes,  he  is'down  there  by  the  sea,  waiting  for 
the  boat.  Shall  we  go  now?  " 

She  had  not  cursed  the  priest  who  refused, 
but  she  blessed  the  deacon  now. 

"God  give  him  many  years,"  she  whispered, 
"and  blessed  be  the  mother  who  bore  him." 

Then  she  followed  Kyr  Vangheli  out  of  the 
house,  and  the  other  women  came  after  them. 
They  advanced  rapidly  for  a  few  steps,  but  sud- 
denly Calliope  stopped  short.  The  glare  of  the 
noonday  sea  was  in  her  eyes,  but  she  knew  that 
the  dark  figures  against  the  white  houses  in 
the  distance  were  the  men  of  Capetan  Leftheri's 
boat,  bringing  Vasili  home. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  that  same  day,  after 
they  had  returned  from  the  little  white-walled 
cemetery,  Calliope,  who  had  sat  for  some  time 
with  the  few  mourners,  to  whom  Kyra  Sophoula 
was  serving  the  coffee,  came  out  of  her  door  in 
the  dusk  with  the  deacon,  who  had  risen  to  take 
leave.  Kyr  Vangheli  had  followed  her,  and 
little  Elenitsa  was  clinging  to  her  skirts. 


VASILI  313 

The  deacon  stood  before  her  and  she  held  his 
hand  in  both  of  hers.  He  was  a  tall  youth, 
beardless  for  the  present,  with  ruddy  lights  in 
the  long  curling  hair  that  fell  over  his  black 
robes. 

"My  son,"  she  said,  with  trembling  lips,  "I 
can  never  repay  you;  nor  can  I  be  sure  that  no 
trouble  will  come  to  you  because  of  us.  I  do  not 
know  what  your  bishop  may  say  if  he  hears 
what  you  have  done.  For  me  I  have  not  even 
asked  your  name,  so  I  cannot  repeat  it,  if  I 
would.  But  the  good  you  have  done  to  a  poor 
widow  and  to  these  orphans,  may  you  find  it 
from  God.  May  He  repay  what  I  cannot." 

As  Kyr  Vangheli  found  that  same  young 
deacon  many  years  later,  a  tall,  smiling,  full- 
bearded  priest  in  Piraeus,  rector  of  a  flourishing 
church,  husband  of  a  pretty,  sweet-tempered 
"pappadia,"  and  father  of  two  promising  young 
scholars  of  the  Gymnasium,  it  is  to  be  hoped 
that  he  considered  the  debt  duly  paid. 


VIII 

BARBA  STATHI 

Worn  with  waiting  for  the  day  to  die. 

RENNELL  ROOD. 

THEY  were  coming  home  to  Poros  for  Easter. 
When  the  steamer  turned  the  corner  by  the 
lighthouse,  most  of  them  were  standing  in  a 
group  at  the  prow,  straining  their  eyes  to  see 
what  boats  had  left  the  quay  and  to  recognize 
the  rowers  in  them.  There  was  Panayi,  old 
Ghika's  son,  who  worked  at  the  iron  foundry  at 
Piraeus;  and  Saranto,  the  joiner,  who  had  gone 
there  to  buy  wood  for  the  new  house  the  Mayor 
was  having  built;  and  Niko,  the  sailor  from  the 
man-of-war,  whose  old  mother  lived  in  Poros; 
and  Lambros,  the  Mayor's  son,  who  had  been 
on  a  visit  to  his  uncle,  the  rich  grocer  at  Piraeus; 
and  the  other  Lambros,  the  Roumeliote,  with 
his  dog  Mourgo,  whom  he  never  left  behind 
with  the  flocks  when  he  was  obliged  to  be  absent 
for  more  than  a  day. 

Right  in  front,  in  his  eagerness  to  see  the  first 
of  the  island,,  was  Metro,  —  Anthi's  Metro,  — 


BARBA  STATHI  315 

the  one  who  was  studying  in  Athens  to  become 
a  schoolmaster.  He  had  been  studying  hard,  as 
money  was  scarce,  and  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  be 
able  to  earn  something,  so  that  for  more  than 
eighteen  months  he  had  not  been  home;  and 
eighteen  months  is  a  long  time  to  be  away  from 
Poros  when  you  love  it.  Not  that  a  birthplace 
need  always  be  loved  by  those  born  and  bred  in 
it,  but  Poros  is  a  place  apart.  Strangers  coming 
for  the  first  time,  and  who  have  traveled  through 
many  lands,  say  they  have  rarely  seen  anything 
more  beautiful  than  this  perfect  bay:  the  wide 
curve  of  the  mainland  with  its  trees  down  to 
the  water's  edge  on  the  right,  the  island  with  its 
thyme-covered  hills  on  the  left,  and  the  white 
village  on  the  bare  rocks  in  the  centre;  and 
opposite  the  village  the  majestic  mountain  of 
the  Sleeper,  with  its  pure  sweeping  outlines,  so 
rarely  seen  out  of  Greece.  When  Metro  learned 
sufficient  French  to  enjoy  reading  it,  he  felt 
persuaded  that  Bourget  had  been  thinking  of 
Poros  when  he  wrote,  "II  y  a  des  paysages  si 
beaux  qu'on  voudrait  les  serrer  sur  son  coeur." 
And  when  he  was  told  that  Bourget  had  traveled 
all  through  the  islands,  he  was  absolutely  con- 
vinced of  it. 

Just  now  Metro  was  very  happy:  not  only 
was  he  coming  home,  but  he  was  enjoying  that 


316       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

refinement  of  pleasure  which  consists  in  showing 
another,  for  the  first  time,  what  we  admire  in- 
tensely and  have  described  innumerable  times. 
The  other  in  this  case  was  a  young  fellow  stu- 
dent from  the  University,  Kosta  Artides  by 
name.  He  came  from  Volo  and  was,  like  Metro, 
a  stranger  in  the  capital.  They  had  discovered 
a  great  similarity  in  their  tastes  and  principles, 
and  considerable  divergence  in  their  opinions 
and  points  of  view,  which  taken  together  gen- 
erally form  the  basis  of  a  lasting  friendship. 

As  the  steamer  came  farther  into  the  port, 
Metro  was  standing  with  his  arm  round  Kosta's 
shoulder,  pointing  eagerly  to  all  the  points  of 
interest  as  they  became  clearer. 

"There  you  can  see  the  Colonna  now,  close 
by  old  Sotiro's  coffee-house,  and  there  along  the 
quay  the  hotel  where  the  strangers  stay  in  sum- 
mer; bah!  they  have  painted  it  pink  since  I  was 
here  last;  what  a  strange  fancy!  That  big  white 
building  at  the  end  of  all  the  little  houses?  Oh, 
that's  the  Naval  School,  where  the  sailors  come 
to  be  taught  before  they  are  drafted  on  to  the 
men-of-war.  There  's  the  Narrow  Beach,  that 
strip  of  land  behind  the  school;  they  say  Poros 
was  divided  into  two  islands  in  the  time  of  the 
ancients,  and  that  this  strip  formed  itself  later 
on.  The  white,  wall  by  the  cypresses  over  there 


BARBA  STATHI  317 

is  the  cemetery,  and  beyond,  that  reddish  line 
among  the  pines  on  the  hill,  is  the  road  to  the 
Monastery.  You  cannot  think,  Kosta,  what  a 
lovely  walk  it  is;  and  if  you  turn  to  the  left,  there 
where  the  hill  dips,  it  goes  right  up  to  Poseidon's 
Temple,  you  know,  the  old  ruins  we  read  about 
in  history,  where  Demosthenes  poisoned  him- 
self. There's  Boudouri's  monument,  and  there's 
the  red  house  on  the  hill,  and  down  there  in  the 
hollow  the  Beach  of  the  Little  Pines.  Oh,  Kosta, 
Kosta,  it's  good  to  be  back  again!" 

But  because  few  things  are  perfect  there  was 
a  disappointment  in  store  for  Metro  when  he 
stepped  on  shore  out  of  old  Louka's  little  boat. 
Maroussa,  his  little  friend,  was  not  in  Poros;  in 
fact  she  was  very  far  away;  as  far  as  Larissa, 
where  she  had  been,  ever  since  the  first  week  in 
Lent,  with  the  wife  of  an  officer  and  her  little 
sick  boy,  who  was  so  fond  of  Maroussa  that  he 
would  only  take  his  medicine  from  her,  and  when 
his  mother  had  been  obliged  to  join  her  husband 
in  Larissa,  nothing  would  do  but  she  must  take 
Maroussa  with  her.  Originally  the  girl  had  only 
agreed  to  serve  her  during  her  stay  in  the  island, 
but  as  the  lady  paid  well,  and  was  also  a  good 
woman  and  would  look  after  her  carefully,  they 
had  let  her  go.  All  this,  Kyra  Sophoula,  Ma- 
roussa's  old  grandmother,  told  Metro,  when  she 


318       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

came  tottering  down  from  her  little  house  up 
the  rocky  street  to  meet  him,  blessing  all  the 
saints  of  the  calendar  as  she  came. 

Metro  had  known  Kyra  Sophoula  all  his  life. 
In  the  days  when  he  was  left  a  forlorn  little 
orphan,  she  had  been,  though  already  old,  a 
strong,  hearty  woman,  and  had  proved  a  stanch 
protector  and  the  kindest  of  friends  to  him;  so 
that  now  he  felt  almost  as  much  her  grandchild 
as  Maroussa  was,  and  all  Poros  generally  thought 
of  him  as  in  some  way  belonging  to  her.  Indeed, 
she  represented  all  the  family  he  had  on  the 
island,  except  for  some  very  distant  cousins  over 
in  Damala,  who  scarcely  counted  as  such.  He 
had  duly  written  from  Athens,  three  days  ago, 
to  tell  her  he  was  coming,  but  Kyra  Sophoula 
had  not  received  his  letter.  When  the  steamer 
came  into  the  port  she  had  just  returned  from 
one  of  the  numerous  services  of  Holy  Week,  and 
had  been  occupied  in  carefully  folding  up  her 
little  black  fringed  shawl,  and  neatly  laying 
it  in  that  chest  of  drawers  with  the  inlaid  ini- 
tials, without  which  no  self-respecting  Poriote 
bride  could  ever  think  of  setting  up  housekeep- 
ing. 

The  troop  of  little  barefooted  lads  always 
hanging  about  the  quay,  who  had  raced  up  the 
rocks  to  tell  her  that  Metro,  Anthi's  Metro, 


BARBA  STATHI  319 

was  in  old  Louka's  boat,  found  her  just  closing 
the  drawer. 

At  first  she  had  been  wildly  incredulous. 
" Metro!  Anthi's  Metro!  But  it  can't  be.  Eh, 
lads,  don't  be  deceiving  me  on  such  holy  days 
as  these." 

"No,  no,  Kyra  Sophoula,"  cried  Masso, 
always  the  chief  of  the  band,  "it's  quite  true; 
may  we  never  break  a  red  egg  this  Easter  if  it 
is  n't." 

And  finally  convinced  by  this  most  important 
oath,  she  hurried  down  to  the  shore  and  fell  on 
her  boy's  neck. 

After  Maroussa's  absence  had  been  accounted 
for,  and  town  life  and  too  much  poring  over 
books  blamed  for  his  pale  cheeks,  she  had  time 
to  notice  his  companion.  A  friend  from  Athens? 
come  to  visit  their  island?  Ah,  that  was  well, 
—  and  his  name? 

"Kosta." 

"Welcome,  Kyr  Kosta;  since  you  are  a  friend 
of  our  Metro's  you  must  be  a  good  lad,  too,  I 
have  no  doubt;  if  you  stay  here  in  our  island, 
over  these  fasting-days,  you  must  come  and 
take  your  soup  with  Metro  and  me  up  in  my 
little  house;  't  is  a  poor  place,  but  at  your  serv- 
ice, Kyr  Kosta,  at  your  service." 

They  walked  slowly  along  by  the  sea.    On 


320       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

their  right  were  the  old  houses  built  among  the 
rocks,  and  to  their  left  a  line  of  gayly  painted 
boats  tied  to  the  iron  rings  of  the  quay  and  still 
tossing  up  and  down  in  the  swell  left  by  the 
steamer.  The  sunlight  on  the  waves  was  daz- 
zlingly  bright,  and  Metro,  listening  intently  to 
all  the  island  news,  instinctively  shaded  his  eyes 
as  he  went.  Nearly  every  second  passer-by 
stopped  him  to  exchange  greetings,  and  the  old 
woman  was  very  proud  to  be  accosted  by  all 
with  the  usual  "May  his  return  be  joyful  to  you, 
Kyra  Sophoula,"  as  though  it  were  in  very  truth 
a  child  of  her  own  come  back  to  her. 

And  she  had  so  much  to  tell  him.  How  Myrto 
was  happy  again,  her  husband  returned  in  the 
ship,  all  the  past  quarrels  forgotten,  and  the 
child  a  fine  boy,  and  peace  in  the  house  again; 
how  Yoryi  the  blind  one  rowed  in  Mastro 
Demetri's  boats  now,  and  Dino  his  boy  was 
quite  a  man  and  working  well  and  helping 
him:  how  Yannoula,  poor  thing,  was  well  and 
more  content  —  thanks  to  Kyr  Vangheli;  she 
would  be  surely  pleased  to  see  Metro,  as  much 
as  anything  could  ever  please  her,  now  her  boy 
Andriko  was  dead.  And  old  Ghika,  up  at  the 
mill;  had  not  his  son  Panayi  traveled  with 
Metro?  She  knew  he  had  been  expecting  him 
for  Easter;  he  earned  good  wages  at  the  iron 


BARBA  STATHI  321 

foundry  at  Piraeus,  she  had  been  told,  but  his 
father  was  the  same  old  miser  as  ever. 

"Would  you  believe  it,  Kyr  Kosta?  "  she  went 
on,  turning  with  instinctive  courtesy  to  include 
the  stranger  in  the  conversation,  —  "would 
you  believe  it?  Not  even  for  Easter  will  he  buy 
his  daughter,  his  only  one,  a  new  dress !  If  ever 
she  marries,  poor  thing,  't  is  from  her  brother 
Panayi  she  must  hope  for  her  dowry,  for  it's 
mighty  little  she'll  get  from  her  father.  Eh,  he 
was  ever  the  same;  always  the  one  to  give  an- 
other the  inside  of  the  olive  and  the  outside  of 
the  walnut." 

They  were  stopped  by  the  joyful  exclamation 
of  a  young  woman  with  a  white  kerchief  tied 
over  her  black  hair,  who  was  returning  from 
the  oven  and  bearing  in  her  baking-tin  four 
large  Easter  tsourekia,  each  with  its  bright  red 
egg  set  in  the  middle.  The  delicious  smell  of 
the  hot  cakes  seemed  to  surround  them,  and 
Metro,  even  before  he  returned  her  greeting, 
had  time  to  notice  how  infinitely  more  satisfy- 
ing it  seemed  than  the  smell  of  the  tsourekia 
escaping  from  the  cellar  windows  of  the  town 
pastry  cooks,  when  last  Easter  he  had  paced  the 
Athens  streets,  homesick  and  alone. 

Milya  had  been  a  friend  of  Maroussa's  and 
had  been  married  since  he  had  last  seen  her;  he 


322       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

duly  inquired  after  her  husband  and  father,  and 
then  bethought  himself  of  her  old  grandmother, 
for  it  is  bad  manners  in  Poros  not  to  ask  after 
every  relative  separately. 

"And  Kyra  Photini?  Is  she  well?" 

The  woman's  laughing  face  turned  sober. 
"Did  you  not  know?  We  lost  her,  poor  soul, 
just  before  the  vintage." 

"No,  I  never  heard,"  said  Metro;  "I  am 
sorry;  life  to  you,  Milya.  I  am  sure,  though, 
that  she  was  happy  and  well  cared  for  to  the 
last.  We  all  know  what  a  good  granddaughter 
she  had;  and  I  heard  how  you  stayed  with  her 
all  day  long,  two  years  ago,  on  the  Feast  of  the 
Virgin,  when  Alcibiades  wanted  to  take  you  to 
the  fair  at  Vidi." 

Milya  smiled  with  satisfaction.  "Eh !  one  does 
what  one  can. " 

And  after  Metro  had  passed  on,  she  returned 
home  feeling  well  pleased  with  herself  and  the 
world  in  general ;  and  when  telling  Alcibiades  of 
his  arrival  she  added,  "Town  life  has  not  spoiled 
him;  he  is  always  a  sweet-spoken  lad  with  a  good 
word  on  his  lips  for  all." 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Kosta  was  wandering 
about  on  the  quay  alone.  Metro  had  given  up 
this  first  day  to  the  old  woman,  and  she  had 
taken  him  with  her  to  her  little  garden  on  the 


BARBA  STATHI  823 

mainland,  where  they  spent  the  long  sunny 
afternoon  sitting  under  the  lemon  boughs  and 
the  walnut  leaves.  Kosta  had  never  been  to  the 
islands  before,  and  he  felt  lonely,  though  the 
small  square  before  the  Colonna  and  the  sur- 
rounding coffee-houses  were  full  of  people.  The 
few  shop  doors  and  booths  were  festively  decked 
with  branches  of  myrtle  and  small  flags  in  honor 
of  Easter.  Housewives,  with  bright-colored  ta- 
garia  on  their  arms,  were  busily  shopping,  and 
the  seafarers  and  captains,  who  had  returned  to 
the  island  for  the  "bright  feast,"  as  most  call  it, 
were  gathered  together  in  groups,  talking  over 
business.  One  said  the  lemon  cargoes  had  paid 
well  this  year,  whereas  last  spring  he  had  only 
just  managed  not  to  lose  on  them;  another  that 
sailing  to  Constantinople,  just  outside  Chios,  he 
and  his  lads  had  thought  it  was  all  over  with 
them;  never  had  he  seen  such  another  storm  in 
the  whole  twenty  years  he  had  been  sailing  in 
the  same  ship,  but  St.  Nicholas  —  glory  be  to 
him !  —  had  stretched  out  his  hand  and  the  sea 
had  calmed  down  by  the  morning. 

Close  by  this  last  group,  a  tall  old  man  was 
leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  bakehouse  oven, 
holding  a  donkey  by  a  rope.  A  red  cotton  ker- 
chief was  roughly  knotted  round  his  gray  head; 
his  linen  kilt  was  not  the  full  white  foustanella 


324       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

of  the  Royal  Guards  in  Athens,  which  Kosta  was 
accustomed  to  see,  but  the  shorter  and  more 
clinging  one  of  the  peasants,  which  in  its  folds 
and  way  of  falling  seems  the  lineal  descendant 
of  the  tunic  of  the  ancients. 

Through  the  tiny  oven  window  could  be  seen 
the  Easter  loaves  smoking  hot,  sprinkled  with 
sesame,  and  each  one  with  a  red  egg  in  the 
midst  of  its  golden-brown  coil.  The  old  man 
stood  looking  at  them  with  a  half -unconscious, 
vague  look  in  his  eyes. 

There  was  no  one  in  Poros  who  did  not  know 
Barba  Stathi  and  his  "beast."  For  more  than 
fifty  years  he  had  traveled  all  over  the  Mediter- 
ranean and  the  Adriatic  in  his  own  small  ship. 
Now  the  old  seaman  was  ending  his  days  as  a 
donkey-driver.  He  had  not  a  soul  left  belong- 
ing to  him.  Still,  Kitso  was  a  good  beast,  and 
not  a  donkey  in  all  Poros  could  boast  of  his 
speed  and  gentleness. 

Kosta  looked  curiously  at  this  old  man,  stand- 
ing apart  from  all  the  rest;  he  noted  the  bent 
gray  head,  the  tall  spare  figure,  and  the  brown 
knotted  old  hands  straying  now  and  then  with  a 
furtive  caress  over  the  donkey's  rough  back. 
At  last  he  went  up  to  him. 

"Barba,"  he  said,  "have  you  any  work;  are 
you  engaged?" 


BARBA  STATHI  325 

"No,  young  master,  I  am  at  your  service." 

"Shall  we  go  for  a  little  turn?  I  am  a  stranger 
here  and  would  like  to  see  the  island." 

"Let  us  go;  climb  upon  the  beast's  back  and 
I  will  keep  near  you,  as  Kitso  likes  rubbing  his 
shins  against  the  trees  and  rocks.  We  will  go 
up  there  to  the  summit,  and  I  will  show  you  the 
Temple  of  Poseidon,  where  the  old  god  used  to 
sit  and  look  at  the  sea  all  around  him." 

"Who  told  you  so,  Barba?" 

"That  is  an  old  story;  no  one  knows  who  told 
it  first." 

They  followed  the  quay  for  some  time  and  then 
crossed  the  Narrow  Beach,  passing  by  the  en- 
trance to  the  Naval  School.  The  tall  iron  gates 
were  wide  open,  and  beyond  the  little  garden 
planted  with  aloes  and  climbing  geraniums 
Kosta  could  discern  the  wide  inclosure  with  its 
line  of  tall  cypresses  at  the  farther  end,  standing 
like  sentinels  before  the  long  white  building. 
A  few  sailors  lounging  about  the  gates  looked 
after  them  with  languid  curiosity  as  they  passed. 

At  the  end  of  the  beach  they  came  down  to 
the  water's  edge,  and  then,  mounting  a  little, 
skirted  the  low  white  wall  of  the  cemetery  by  a 
path  so  narrow  and  crumbling  that  only  a  Pori- 
ote  donkey,  who  had  often  been  over  every  step 
of  it  in  the  dark,  could  have  reached  the  broader 


326       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

hillside  road  without  tumbling  his  rider  over  on 
the  rocks  below. 

It  was  very  sunny  and  quiet  here  on  the  Mon- 
astery Road:  the  village  sounds  were  left  far 
behind,  and  nothing  broke  the  silence  but  the 
lapping  of  the  little  waves  to  their  right  and 
the  distant  tinkling  of  sheep  bells  on  the  hills. 

They  crossed  the  stone  bridge  and  then 
turned  inland  to  mount  the  slope  that  led  to  the 
Temple.  Kosta  felt  the  scent  of  the  crushed 
thyme  under  Kitso's  hoofs  as  they  left  the 
road. 

"The  sun  is  hot  for  spring,  Barba,"  he  said, 
turning  to  the  old  man  behind  him;  "am  I  not 
heavy  for  the  beast?" 

"Do  not  trouble  yourself,"  answered  the  old 
man,  "we  shall  soon  come  to  the  shade." 

And  with  voice  and  hand  he  urged  the  donkey 
on  till  they  reached  the  wooded  part  of  the  hill. 
There  the  footpath  wound  up  through  the  bud- 
ding oleanders,  the  arbutus  shrubs,  and  the 
young  pines.  Once  or  twice  there  was  a  hole  in 
the  path,  and  Kitso  stumbled. 

"Keep  up,  you  clumsy  beast,"  the  old  man 
cried  to  him.  "If  you  don't  step  better  you'll 
get  a  taste  of  the  stick  to-night,  as  sure  as  they 
call  me  Stathi.  Will  you  be  letting  the  master 
fall  off?" 


BARBA  STATHI  327 

Then,  turning  to  the  young  man,  "Give  me 
your  name." 

"Kosta." 

The  old  man's  face  contracted,  and  his  lips 
closed  tightly  together  for  a  moment. 

"May  your  years  be  many,  Kyr  Kosta." 

"Thank  you,"  replied  the  youth  courteously, 
"and  yours  also." 

"Mine!  Oh,  no!  May  God  lengthen  your 
years  and  shorten  my  days.  My  Kosta  was  a 
fine  big  lad  like  you,  and  a  good  boy,  and  a 
brave  one;  but  it  was  not  written  in  the  book  of 
Fate  that  he  should  live  to  close  my  eyes." 

And  then,  fearing  he  had  been  obtruding  his 
grief,  he  asked  hastily,  "You  are  from  Athens, 
my  young  master?" 

"No,  from  Volo." 

"Ah,  that  is  near  the  sea;  a  fine  place.  Niko 
Mandelli,  who  is  a  sailor  on  the  Psara,  told  me 
of  it." 

The  path  had  been  getting  steeper  for  some 
time,  and  Kosta  dismounted.  Kitso,  lightened 
of  his  load,  trotted  steadily  on  in  front,  and  the 
two  men  followed  in  silence.  The  lentisk  bushes 
with  their  fresh  green  shoots  and  the  tall  ole- 
anders grew  so  thickly  in  parts  that  they  could 
not  walk  abreast.  Now  and  then  Kosta,  lagging 
behind,  would  ask  his  guide  whether  they  were 


328       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

nearing  the  Temple.  The  sun  was  hot,  the  in- 
cline steep,  and  he  was  more  of  a  student  than 
a  walker.  And  Barba  Stathi,  following  the  habit 
of  his  kind,  would  always  reply,  "Just  behind 
the  little  mount  there,"  this  being  the  invariable 
answer  of  the  Greek  peasant  to  questions  of  dis- 
tance; he  never  thinks  to  mention  the  various 
other  little  mounts  behind  the  first  one,  still  to 
be  ascended  before  the  goal  is  reached.  Why 
should  he  "spoil  your  heart's  content"? 

However,  the  sun  was  still  high  when  they 
reached  the  last  plateau.  Kosta  had  expected 
more  ruins,  and  might  almost  have  passed  the 
site  of  the  ancient  building  without  noticing  it, 
had  not  his  companion  drawn  his  attention  to 
the  traces  of  its  foundations.  There  were  no 
large  broken  columns  lying  about,  and  the  frag- 
ment of  a  shaft  they  chose  for  a  seat  might  easily 
have  been  mistaken  for  a  rock  a  little  whiter 
than  the  surrounding  ones. 

Very  far  below  them  on  the  other  side  of  the 
island,  in  the  many  small  indented  bays,  the 
sea  rippled  under  the  afternoon  sun.  Close  to 
the  shore  it  was  of  that  deep  rich  purple  that 
makes  such  a  glorious  harmony  of  color  with  the 
red  of  the  earth  and  the  tender  green  of  the  pines. 
Farther  out,  where  the  purple  took  a  lighter 
hue,  not  a  sail  broke  the  monotony  of  the  wide 


BARBA  STATHI  329 

expanse  of  water;  to  the  north  rose  JSgina  and 
two  smaller  islands,  a  clear  luminous  blue,  — 

Like  broken  sapphires  on  a  milky  sea; 

and  farther  still,  the  white  gleam  on  the  horizon 
that  was  Athens,  and  the  faint  outline  of  its 
rock. 

Kosta  sat  still,  brushing  a  small  sprig  of  thyme 
between  his  fingers;  then,  without  looking  up,  — 

"Is  it  long,  Barba  Stathi,  since  you  lost 
him?" 

"Eight  years,  Kyr  Kosta,  eight  years  next 
harvest.  My  old  woman  went,  God  rest  her!  a 
year  after  the  lad,  and  here  am  I,  a  useless  log, 
alive  still!  Seventy  years  old  as  you  see  me, 
working  all  day  on  the  hills,  breaking  wood  and 
uprooting  thyme  for  the  ovens,  and  yet  when  I 
lie  down  in  my  corner  at  night,  sleep  keeps  away 
from  me.  At  times  I  wonder  whether  some  one 
who  wished  me  evil  may  have  laid  a  curse  upon 
me,  that  I  cannot  find  rest.  You  who  have  learn- 
ing may  understand  better,  but  to  me  it  seems 
very  strange  that  old  Charon  cuts  down  so  many 
young  lives  in  their  bloom  and  forgets  the  old 
man  who  is  weary  of  waiting  for  him.  If  I  could 
sleep  at  least!  My  boy  might  come  to  me  in  my 
dreams!  But  he  never  does." 

"Perhaps  you  overtire  yourself,  and  cannot 


330       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

sleep,"  said  Kosta  gently;  "you  are  old  to  work 
so  hard." 

Then,  from  his  scanty  store  of  holiday  money, 
he  produced  four  drachmas  and  laid  them  on  the 
marble  between  them. 

"Will  this  help  you,  Barba,  to  work  less  for  a 
few  days  at  least?" 

The  old  man  took  them  up  simply,  folded 
them,  and  placed  them  in  his  belt. 

"God  give  you  riches  and  youth  to  enjoy 
them,  but  for  me,  drachmas  or  lepta,  it  is  the 
same.  Who  works  much  thinks  less;  and  it  is 
never  bread  I  lack." 

"Was  your  son  long  ill?"  Kosta  asked. 

"111!  not  for  a  day!  Ah,  you  cannot  tell,  who 
never  saw  him,  what  he  was :  as  young  and  fresh 
and  straight  as  a  branch  of  myrtle.  He  went, 
quite  a  lad  yet,  to  work  in  Capetan  Vasili's 
boat  from  Missolonghi,  and  every  autumn  when 
he  came  back  to  the  island,  you  should  have 
seen  all  the  things  he  brought  for  his  mother 
and  for  me.  He  was  always  a  good  worker,  and 
all  he  earned  he  would  bring  home.  You'd  say 
that  like  other  grown  lads  he  'd  turn  in  now  and 
then  to  the  tavern  for  a  drink  of  masticha  or  a 
game  of  skambili,  but  he  never  did,  Kyr  Kosta, 
never,  though  the  other  lads  would  laugh  at 
him.  But  he  never  minded;  he  had  the  laugh 


BARBA  STATHI  331 

on  his  side  when  some  of  them  would  spend  all 
they  had  and  end  by  having  to  go  for  months 
with  the  sponge  divers." 

Kosta  had  heard  enough  of  island  ways  to 
know  how  this  was  dreaded,  especially  by  the 
old  people. 

"But  he  never  came  to  that?" 

"Nay,  not  he!  Four  years  he  worked  on  the 
ship,  and  then  Capetan  Vasili,  who  knew  his 
worth,  got  it  into  his  head  to  marry  him  to  his 
daughter.  So  he  says  to  him  one  day,  'Kosta, 
you  are  an  honest  lad  and  a  good  seaman;  I  have 
thought  to  give  you  my  girl  Anneza  for  wife, 
and  to  make  you  captain  on  my  ship,  so  that 
you  will  be  working  for  yourself.  I  am  not 
young  any  more,  and  what  I  have  gathered 
together  is  sufficient  for  my  old  woman  and  for 
me/  My  boy,  who  had  never  yet  worked  but  for 
wage,  was  taken  by  surprise  when  he  heard  this. 
'If  so  be  that  you  wish  it,  my  captain,'  he  said, 
*why  not?' 

"And  so,  Kyr  Kosta,  just  at  the  pruning  o£ 
the  vines,  I  get  a  letter  from  my  boy.  I  took  it 
over  to  Kyr  Apostoli  down  there,  —  you  know 
him,  perhaps,  the  one  who  keeps  the  oven,  — 
that  he  might  read  it  to  me.  'Father,'  said  the 
letter,  'Capetan  Vasili,  who  treats  me  like  a 
child  of  his  own,  wants  to  make  me  his  son-in- 


332       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

law,  and  master  of  his  ship.  His  daughter 
Anneza  is  a  good  girl,  and  I  like  her,  but  I  told 
him  I  must  first  have  your  permission  and  my 
mother's.  So  write  to  me,  my  father,  and  ask 
my  mother  also  what  I  must  decide.' 

"What  could  I  write?  Were  all  the  good  girls 
lost  from  Poros,  that  he  must  go  and  marry  this 
Anneza  that  we  had  never  seen?  All  night  long 
with  my  old  woman  we  thought  over  what  we 
should  write.  And  in  the  morning  I  had  the 
letter  written,  thanks  be  to  Kyr  Apostoli, — may 
he  keep  well,  —  and  in  it  I  asked  my  boy  why,  if 
once  he  had  thought  to  marry,  he  should  not 
come  home  to  the  island  to  find  a  maiden  to  his 
taste  and  to  ours,  instead  of  taking  a  strange 
wife,  and  setting  up  a  house  in  another  country, 
since  our  little  house  here  and  all  we  had  was  his. 
Many  days  passed  and  a  second  letter  came  from 
him,  saying  that  after  all  he  had  decided  to 
marry  this  girl  and  begged  us  to  send  him  our 
blessing.  But  how  could  we  send  it?  Is  a  bless- 
ing a  thing  to  be  sent  shut  up  in  a  letter?  Had 
he  been  here  we  could  have  given  it  to  him,  yes; 
but  to  send  it!  So  once  more  we  wrote  to  him 
that  a  blessing  does  not  reach  so  far  away,  and 
he  must  needs  come  home  to  receive  it." 

"And  did  he  come  then?"  asked  the  young 
man. 


BARBA  STATHI  833 

Kitso  the  donkey  had  strayed  up  to  them,  and 
Barba  Stathi  stroked  his  long  gray  ears  reflect- 
ively as  he  answered. 

"He  was  afraid,  you  see.  They  tell  me  the 
maiden  was  a  handsome  one,  and  he  was  afraid 
we  might  stand  in  his  way;  so  three  weeks  later 
we  got  another  letter  that  he  had  married  An- 
neza!  So  I  wrote  that  he  had  done  well,  that  his 
mother  and  I  sent  him  our  blessing,  and  that 
we  wished  health  and  long  life  to  them  and  to 
their  sons,  and  to  their  sons'  sons,  when  we 
should  have  closed  our  eyes.  Once  he  had  mar- 
ried her,  what  could  I  say  else?  Why  spoil  his 
heart's  content?  Had  we  even  any  other  child- 
ren? He  was  our  only  one.  'Anastasia,'  I  said 
to  my  old  woman  in  the  evening  when  I  found 
her  crying  secretly,  'don't  cry  so;  it  was  writ- 
ten, you  see,  in  our  book  of  Fate  that  our  one 
child  should  marry  away  in  strange  parts.  Well, 
well;  God  give  him  life."1 

The  sun  was  low  on  the  horizon,  and  far  below 
them  the  soft  plash  of  the  sea  against  the  rocks 
mingled  with  the  first  breath  of  the  night  breeze 
in  the  pines.  Barba  Stathi  looked  towards 
^Egina  and  Athens,  whose  colors  had  sobered  in 
the  afterglow.  Then  he  brought  Kitso  forward, 
settling  his  samari  more  comfortably  on  his 
back  as  he  said,  "Let  us  go:  there  is  a  long  road 


334       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

before  us,  and  we  must  be  near  the  village  when 
the  darkness  falls." 

They  started  in  silence  and  were  well  on  their 
way  down  before  he  spoke  again  suddenly,  as 
though  there  had  been  no  pause. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you,  Kyr  Kosta,  that  a  bless- 
ing does  not  reach  so  far?  I  remember  it  was 
on  a  wild  night  near  Christmas;  the  rain  was 
running  in  rivers  outside,  the  wind  blowing  fit 
to  lift  the  tiles  off  the  roof,  and  whistling 
through  the  cracks  in  the  walls,  when  my  old 
woman  and  I  got  up  at  midnight  and  lighted 
the  lamp  before  the  icon  of  St.  Nicholas,  the 
very  one  I  had  brought  off  my  old  ship,  and 
prayed  to  him  to  help  all  those  on  the  sea  on  such 
a  terrible  night.  Anastasia  kept  going  from  St. 
Nicholas  to  the  icon  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  im- 
ploring them  to  keep  her  boy  safe  for  her.  And 
so  the  dawn  found  us,  a  cold  rainy  dawn,  with 
the  wind  still  howling  round  the  house  like  one 
possessed  of  a  demon.  I  had  no  courage  left  to 
comfort  her,  poor  unfortunate  creature,  for  I 
knew  that  our  Kosta  had  left  five  days  ago  with 
his  ship  for  Genoa;  Capetan  Thanassi,  just  back 
from  Marseilles,  had  told  me  of  it.  But  I  had 
kept  the  tidings  to  myself.  Why  should  I  tell 
his  mother?  She  would  learn  it  soon  enough." 

Kitso  stumbled  on  a  loose  stone,  but  his  mas- 


BARBA  STATHI  335 

ter  forgot  to  scold  him  as  he  walked  alongside, 
his  gray  head  bent  down  on  his  breast. 

"All  that  night,  that  Christmas  Eve,  while 
we  had  been  praying  for  him,  my  lad  —  I 
learned  it  from  the  others  later  on  —  had  been 
at  the  wheel  battling  with  that  wild  wind  and 
sea;  and  in  the  early  morn  just  as  dawn  broke  — 
the  wave  took  him.  The  mate  and  the  others 
rushed  on  deck,  but  it  was  too  late;  they  only 
heard  him  cry  out  once,  *  Father,  mother,  — 
your  blessing ! ' ' 

It  was  getting  dark  and  a  little  chilly,  and  the 
young  man  shivered  and  drew  his  cloak  round 
him.  An  owl  hooted  in  a  pine  tree  close  by, 
and  a  dog  barked  in  some  distant  sheepfold. 

When  they  were  nearing  the  village  the  old 
man  spoke  once  more. 

"We  had  sent  him  our  blessing,  had  we  not, 
when  he  asked  for  it?  But,  you  see,  it  was  too 
far  —  too  far!  it  could  do  no  good." 

On  the  Tuesday  after  Easter,  Kosta  and 
Metro  were  going  back  again  to  town  and  work 
by  the  same  steamer  that  had  brought  them  to 
Poros.  Kosta  had  been  away  for  three  days  to 
some  of  the  other  islands  farther  on,  and  had 
picked  up  Metro  on  his  way  back. 

"Metro,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "was  it  true 


336       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

what  the  boatman  said  who  brought  you  to  the 
steamer  —  about  the  donkey-driver  who  took 
me  up  to  the  Temple  the  day  we  first  came, 
BarbaStathi?" 

"Yes,  it  is  true:  they  found  him  lying  dead 
on  his  mattress  on  Easter  dawn,  just  as  they 
were  returning  from  the  first  Resurrection  Serv- 
ice. But  you  need  not  be  sorry;  it  was  a  good 
thing." 

"I  know  it  was,"  said  Kosta  slowly;  "but 
what  of  the  poor  old  beast?  He  was  fond  of  it." 

"That  is  arranged,"  said  Metro.  "Louka 
has  a  little  garden;  he  will  keep  it  there." 

And  then  they  spoke  of  other  things. 

In  the  mean  while  Kyra  Sophoula  had  come 
down  to  the  quay  to  fill  her  pitcher  at  the  foun- 
tain and  to  see  Metro  off.  Yannoula,  her  friend, 
a  quiet  woman  with  sad  eyes,  and  two  or  three 
other  neighbors  were  with  her.  Close  by,  old 
Sotiro,  the  coffee-house  keeper,  was  sunning  his 
ample  person  on  his  doorstep  and  exchanging 
the  day's  news  with  Ghika  of  the  mill,  who  had 
accompanied  his  son  Panayi  to  the  steamer. 

Yes,  Barba  Stathi  had  left  his  years  to  them; 
they  had  buried  him  yesterday.  Well,  well, 
God  rest  him,  he  had  had  a  hard  life.  But  had 
Ghika  heard  that  he  had  left  a  bit  of  paper  with 
Kyr  Apostoli,  to  say  that  Metro  —  Anthi's 


BARBA  STATHI  337 

Metro,  the  one  who  had  just  left  them  —  was 
to  have  Kitso  the  donkey  to  do  what  he  would 
with?  And  just  think  of  it,  Metro  had  actually 
got  old  Louka  to  let  the  beast  stay  in  his  little 
garden,  just  doing  nothing  all  day,  and  was  pay- 
ing him  for  his  keep ! 

"Metro  always  had  a  soft  heart,"  chimed  in 
Milya. 

"Soft  heart,"  grunted  Sotiro;  "that  often 
goes  with  a  soft  head,  my  girl.  Could  he  not 
have  sold  it  to  Nasso,  who  wants  a  donkey  to 
carry  stones  for  the  Mayor's  building?  There 
was  work  in  the  old  beast  yet.  Ah,  well,  Metro 
will  never  make  a  practical  man.  Book-learning 
is  n't  everything." 

Which  saying,  he  retired  majestically  into  the 
interior  of  his  coffee-house. 

"Well,  it  won't  choke  you  or  your  children," 
called  out  Kyra  Sophoula  derisively  after  him. 
Then,  turning  to  Yannoula  and  the  younger 
women,  "He  used  to  take  the  stick  to  his 
daughter  Chrysafo,  when  she  was  a  tiny  maid, 
and  her  mother,  who  was  a  sensible  woman, 
God  rest  her,  would  have  had  her  taught  let- 
ters; and  now  Chrysafo's  husband  has  to  take 
the  stick  to  her  to  keep  her  from  gadding  about 
and  gaping  at  the  windows.  I  got  no  book- 
learning  in  my  time,  —  girls  were  not  much 


338       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

thought  of  then,  —  but  I  took  good  care  to 
send  Maroussa  to  school  and  get  her  head  well 
filled  to  keep  the  rubbish  out;  but  Sotiro 
would  n't  have  his  children,  he  said,  know  more 
than  he  did.  If  he  ever  goes  blind  he  will  want 
God  to  put  the  sun  out." 

The  steamer  had  passed  the  lighthouse  point 
by  now,  and  nothing  but  a  long  trail  of  smoke 
could  be  seen.  The  pitchers  were  full.  Yan- 
noula  lifted  both,  Kyra  Sophoula's  as  well  as 
her  own,  and  the  two  women  toiled  up  the  rocky 
street  together. 


IX 

THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE 

So  day  went  down  behind  the  ocean  rim, 
While  westward  the  sweet  star  of  silence  grew 
Through  yellow  hazes  melting  into  blue; 
The  shadows  deepened  till  the  isles  were  dim. 

REX  NELL  ROOD. 


.. 


'AND  so,"  began  Maroussa,  "you  must  know 
that  once  upon  a  time  there  lived  a  pasha,  who 
had  three  pairs  of  slippers,  —  a  red  pair,  a  yel- 
low pair,  and  a  green  pair.  The  red  pair  he  wore 
on  three  days  of  the  week,  the  yellow  pair  the 
other  three,  but  the  green  pair  he  only  wore  on 
Fridays  and  high  holidays." 

It  was  many  years  since  Metro  had  heard  this 
particular  tale.  He  smiled  quietly  in  recogni- 
tion of  an  old  friend,  crossed  his  long  legs,  and 
settled  himself  back  to  listen. 

They  were  sitting  round  the  table  after  the 
midday  meal  on  Easter  Sunday,  Kyra  Sophoula, 
Maroussa,  Metro,  and  a  stranger,  —  a  little  old 
man  with  a  round  face  and  a  bristling  gray 
mustache.  This  was  no  less  than  the  French 
master  about  whom  Metro  had  written  and 


340       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

spoken  so  often;  the  one  who,  for  many  years, 
had  been  so  kind  to  him,  and  had  taught  him 
French  for  pure  love  of  his  quick  comprehension 
and  facility  in  learning.  He  had  come  for  the 
first  time  to  Poros  for  the  holidays  with  Metro, 
and  Kyra  Sophoula  had  asked  him  to  take  his 
Easter  dinner  with  them.  She  had  done  so  in 
fear  and  trembling  lest  the  resources  of  her  lit- 
tle house  should  prove  insufficient,  but  the  old 
Frenchman  had  been  so  simply  and  genuinely 
pleased  with  everything,  so  interested  in  all 
their  island  customs,  that  she  had  soon  felt 
quite  at  her  ease  with  him,  and  had  boldly 
tapped  her  red  egg  against  his,  hospitably  de- 
lighted that  his  had  remained  unbroken  the 
longer  of  the  two. 

Now,  after  dinner,  he  had  begged  for  one  of 
the  old  tales,  of  which,  Metro  had  told  him, 
Maroussa  knew  so  many,  and  she  had  com- 
menced the  one  of  the  pasha  with  the  three 
pairs  of  slippers. 

Maroussa  also  had  only  just  returned  to  Poros 
in  time  for  Easter.  She  had  been  away  in  Larissa 
for  over  a  year,  with  a  little  boy  who  was  sickly, 
and  who  had  taken  such  a  fancy  to  her  that  he 
would  only  take  his  medicine  from  her  hand.  So 
when  the  mother,  an  officer's  wife,  had  followed 
her  husband  and  his  regiment  to  Larissa,  Kyra 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    341 

Sophoula  in  common  humanity  had  been  forced 
to  allow  her  granddaughter  to  go  with  them. 
But  the  child  was  stronger  now,  and  Maroussa 
had  been  dispatched  back  to  Poros,  in  the  care 
of  a  friendly  old  captain  from  Volo.  She  had 
grown  taller  and  slimmer  while  away,  and  had 
discarded  the  island  kerchief,  wearing  her  wavy 
black  hair  coiled  town  fashion  on  the  top  of  her 
head,  which  made  her  look  still  taller. 

Metro,  too,  had  changed  considerably;  his 
skin  was  less  sunburned,  and  his  hair  seemed 
darker  beside  it.  He  was  less  awkward,  too, 
than  he  had  been,  though  he  would  never  be 
anything  but  a  plain  man.  The  person,  however, 
who  would  have  dared  to  say  as  much  to  Kyra 
Sophoula  would  have  scarcely  met  with  a  pleas- 
ant reception.  She  had  been  happy  in  the  belief 
that  all  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  her  in  envy  when 
she  had  walked  back  from  the  midnight  Resur- 
rection service  between  her  two  tall  "children," 
the  tiny  flames  of  all  their  three  Easter  tapers 
keeping  bravely  alight  in  the  perfect  stillness 
of  the  spring  night;  and  when  she  had  sat  down 
with  them  to  break  her  long  Lenten  fast  with 
the  first  red  egg,  and  tsourekia  of  her  own  bak- 
ing, it  had  been  like  old  days  in  the  little  house. 
The  poor  old  woman  had  lived  there  alone  for  so 
many  months!  From  her  covered  terrace  she 


342       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

could  see  across  to  the  mountains  of  the  main- 
land. She  had  seen  them  all  her  life,  and  they 
did  not  mean  much  to  her,  but  when  they  were 
rose-violet  at  sunset,  or  full  of  deep  blue  shad- 
ows at  dawn,  she  would  lift  her  eyes  to  them  and 
think  of  Metro.  "The  lad  would  like  them 
now,"  she  would  mutter.  Love  had  given  her 
understanding. 

It  was  more  than  six  years  since  Metro  had 
left  the  island.  He  had  learned  all  that  could 
be  taught  in  the  Poros  school,  and  had  then 
gone  to  Athens  to  learn  more,  to  become  a 
schoolmaster  some  day  in  his  turn.  That  had 
been  his  ambition  at  the  time,  and  Kyra 
Sophoula  had  been  inordinately  proud  of  it. 
Had  not  her  cherished  copper  pans  and  oven 
trays  been  sold  to  defray  his  first  expenses?  He 
had  returned  three  times  since  then  to  the 
island,  but  for  very  short  visits,  for  even  during 
the  holidays  he  worked  hard.  What  the  exact 
nature  of  this  work  was,  Kyra  Sophoula  had 
of  late  not  clearly  understood.  At  first  he  had 
helped  little  boys  with  their  preparation.  That 
was  simple;  she  knew  what  that  meant  quite 
well.  She  remembered  Kyr  Vangheli,  the 
schoolmaster,  going  daily  in  the  summertime 
to  the  red  house  on  the  hill,  to  prepare  the  boys 
who  lived  there  for  their  winter  classes;  and  once 


SHE  HAD  SEEN  THE  MOUNTAINS  ALL  HER  LIFE 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    343 

he  had  given  preparation  lessons,  out  of  school 
hours,  to  the  Mayor's  little  son.  So  this  early 
work  of  Metro's  was  quite  as  it  should  be;  a 
good  apprenticeship  for  his  future  trade  of 
teaching.  But  for  the  last  two  years  she  had  not 
understood  at  all.  Metro  wrote  of  work  done 
for  friends,  of  notes  taken,  of  museums,  of  lec- 
tures, even  of  little  trips  taken,  oftenest  to 
Delphi,  but  at  times  to  other  places  out  of 
Athens;  of  being  allowed  to  help  in  excavations, 
to  superintend  workmen.  It  was  all  most  be- 
wildering to  the  poor  old  woman,  especially 
Metro's  answer  some  months  ago  to  her  timidly- 
ventured  question  as  to  whether  he  was  soon 
likely  to  be  able  to  teach  regularly. 

"I!"  he  had  cried;  "I!  teach!  Why,  I  am  only 
just  beginning  to  learn!" 

"Only  just  beginning  to  learn!"  After  six 
years !  Her  clever  boy !  who  even  when  he  first 
left  the  island  had  already  learned,  the  school- 
master had  himself  confessed  it,  all  he  could 
teach  him. 

Kyra  Sophoula  gave  up  attempting  to  under- 
stand. And  now  that  he  was  again  in  Poros  for 
Easter  there  seemed  no  new  light  on  the  situa- 
tion. He  was  the  same  kind,  thoughtful  boy  as 
ever,  but  no  word  had  been  spoken  of  future 
plans.  He  had  brought  the  old  woman  a  whole 


344       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

length  of  soft  black  woolen  material  for  a  dress. 
This  she  received  with  duly  spoken  gratitude, 
but  inward  distrust.  Kyra  Sophoula  had  always 
worn  honest  island  stuff,  woven  on  primitive 
hand  looms,  and  did  not  hold  with  town  goods 
bought  at  a  shop.  She  expected,  as  she  told  her 
neighbor  Yannoula  privately,  that  the  fine- 
looking  dress  would  not  last  from  figtime  to 
grapetime. 

M.  Arnoux  had  traveled  with  Metro  from 
Athens,  and  was  staying  at  Kyr  Panayoti's 
hotel  on  the  quay.  Kyra  Sophoula  watched  him 
now,  as  he  listened  intently  to  Maroussa's  tale, 
his  knees  drawn  up  on  the  rung  of  the  chair, 
and  now  and  then  an  uplifting  of  the  gray  mus- 
tache which  multiplied  the  wrinkles  of  his  worn 
old  face. 

"So  the  green  slippers  were  found  at  last," 
concluded  Maroussa;  "and  on  the  wedding- 
morn  they  were  brought  forward  in  a  crystal 
box  laid  on  a  golden  cushion,  and  the  slave, 
Khalil,  placed  them  on  the  pasha's  feet.  So  he 
married  Taira  and  they  all  lived  well,  and  we 
still  better." 

"That  is  well  to  know,"  said  M.  Arnoux, 
smiling,  when  her  voice  had  ceased;  "else  might 
we  be  dissatisfied  with  our  lot,  we  who  have  no 
green  slippers.  That  tale,"  he  added,  "is  en- 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    345 

tirely  in  the  style  of  the  Thousand  and  One 
Nights;  surely,  it  must  have  been  forgotten 
from  the  collection?" 

His  voice  was  interrogatory,  and  Maroussa 
thought  an  answer  was  expected  of  her. 

"Do  I  know?  Kyra  Photini  told  me  the  tale. 
She  knew  many  fine  ones,  but  she  is  dead  now." 

"For  the  greater  peace  of  her  household," 
murmured  Kyra  Sophoula. 

"Why,  Yiayia!"  said  Maroussa,  teasingly, 
"what  words  are  these,  and  on  such  a  day! 
When  I  was  a  little  one,  I  remember  you  always 
picking  olives  side  by  side  with  Kyra  Photini; 
and  she  always  talked  of  her  friendship  for 
you." 

"One  can  pick  olives,  my  daughter,"  an- 
swered Kyra  Sophoula,  "but  not  one's  com- 
pany; and  as  for  Kyra  Photini's  friendship  — 
bah !  it  was  ever  like  the  branch  of  a  fig  tree  that 
looks  so  big  and  strong,  and  if  you  lean  on  it  or 
trust  your  weight  to  it  —  tak !  it  breaks  like 
glass.  While  the  pine  branch  —  ah,  there  is  a 
friend!  It  looks  a  slim  little  thing  as  big  as 
nothing,  and  you  may  hang  on  it,  and  drag 
yourself  up  by  it  from  one  rock  to  another,  and 
it  will  never  break  or  fail  you,  never!" 

This  was  not  poetical  metaphor  on  Kyra 
Sophoula's  part,  but  frequent  and  actual  experi- 


346       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

ence.  From  many  an  awkward  fall  had  she  been 
saved  by  a  timely  pine  branch. 

After  the  end  of  the  tale,  they  talked  of  many 
things.  Only  Maroussa  was  silent.  She  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  with  crossed  arms  and  closed 
lips,  and  her  eyes  seemed  fixed  on  the  bare  wall 
before  her. 

Kyra  Sophoula  had  island  news  in  plenty  to 
relate,  but  it  was  Metro  who  led  her  on,  and 
asked  about  this  one  or  the  other  one.  While 
the  old  woman  was  speaking  he  looked  curi- 
ously once  or  twice  at  the  girl,  but  she  never 
moved. 

M.  Arnoux  listened  smilingly.  The  Poros 
expressions  baffled  him  now  and  then,  and  Metro 
had  to  translate  a  word  or  a  sentence  for  him 
into  purer  Greek,  but  on  the  whole  he  followed 
well. 

Kyra  Sophoula  told  them  of  the  grand  chris- 
tening feast  which  had  followed  the  baptism 
of  the  little  son  of  Mantho  and  Viola,  where 
all  the  children  present  had  not  only  both 
hands  filled  with  sugared  almonds,  but  their 
pockets  as  well,  and  where  so  many  gunshots 
had  been  let  off  for  joy  that  you  might  have 
thought  it  was  Easter.  A  fine  boy,  truly,  and 
Kyr  Stamo,  his  grandfather,  quite  childish  over 
him.  A  pity  the  other  grandfather,  old  Photi, 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    347 

had  not  lived  to  see  him.  She  spoke  of  poor 
Calliope  the  widow,  and  her  three  little  ones,  — 
Aristidi,  the  boy,  worked  well,  and  would  soon 
be  a  help  to  her;  and  of  Andoni,  the  joiner  from 
Patras,  who  had  broken  open  Sotiro's  money- 
box in  the  night,  and  had  been  taken  to  Nauplia 
in  the  boat,  his  arms  tied  back  with  ropes.  It 
was  well  Andriana  had  left  him  when  she  did, 
and  had  taken  his  girl  with  her.  No,  in  answer 
to  Metro,  she  did  not  know  where  Andriana 
was;  no  one  had  ever  heard  of  her. 
y  "And  Capetan  Leftheri,  what  of  him?" 

"He  is  getting  old,"  said  Kyra  Sophoula; 
"but  he  goes,  and  he  comes,  and  he  goes  again. 
He  always  says  he  will  leave  his  boat  to  his 
nephew,  and  stay  on  the  island  for  good,  but  he 
never  does.  He  cannot  rest;  I  think  he  must 
have  eaten  of  the  lotus  flower." 

Then  M.  Arnoux  began  to  ask  Metro  about 
places  on  the  island  and  on  the  mainland,  of 
which  he  had  heard,  and  they  planned  excursions 
together.  Little  by  little  the  talk  wandered 
beyond  the  old  woman's  comprehension;  they 
talked  of  monuments,  of  temples,  of  tombs,  of 
excavations,  of  measurements,  of  metopes,  of 
Doric  rhythm,  of  Ionic  rhythm;  but  she  listened 
eagerly,  delighted  to  think  her  boy  should  be 
talking  so  freely  of  such  abstruse  matters. 


348       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

M.  Arnoux  turned  to  her  pleasantly.  "We 
have  been  to  many  beautiful  places  with  Metro, 
but  he  never  found  any  to  compare  with  his 
island.'* 

"It  is  much  the  same  as  all  the  other  islands, 
I  have  been  told,"  answered  the  old  woman; 
"but  the  lad  was  always  foolish  about  it." 

"Nay,  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  all 
Greece,"  protested  M.  Arnoux  in  his  careful, 
correct  Greek;  "and  I  anticipate  great  pleasure 
in  visiting  all  parts  of  it.  Indeed,  there  are  some 
spots  I  feel  sure  I  shall  recognize,  for  Metro  has 
described  them  to  me  at  times  as  though  they 
were  actually  before  him." 

"But  they  were,"  said  Metro;  "is  it  not 
strange  how  you  can  see  so  well  what  is  not  there  ? 
A  thousand  times,  in  a  crowded  street  in  town, 
I  have  seen  the  hills  and  the  sea  and  the  pines. 
Just  to  close  your  eyes  —  so  —  and  it  is  all 
clear  before  you.  Why,  now,  here  in  this  room, 
I  can  see  so  plainly  all  that  one  sees  from  the 
hill  behind  the  red  house.  The  line  of  the  shore 
that  goes  in  and  out,  the  lemon  orchards,  the 
water  mill  in  the  Admiral's  garden;  farther  on, 
the  white  line  of  the  cemetery  wall  with  the 
cypresses  rising  above  it,  then  the  Narrow 
Beach  stretching  across  to  the  Naval  School, 
just  the  strip  of  yellow  earth  with  the  four  dark 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    349 

trees  on  it.  And  somehow  I  always  see  the  Nar- 
row Beach  as  it  is  in  the  afternoons,  with  the 
sea  light  blue  on  this  side  and  dark  blue  on  the 
other,  where  the  red  rocks  below  the  Monastery 
Road  dip  into  it;  and  right  in  front  Barba 
Nicola's  little  wineshop  with  the  white  cat  on  the 
doorstep;  and  beyond  it  the  pink  cottage  with 
the  wide-spreading  pine  right  over  the  sea,  and 
the  white  boat  that  was  always  drawn  up  under 
the  shade.  There  was  always  an  old  boat  there, 
and  nets  hanging  out  to  dry.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber, Maroussa?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

But  Maroussa  looked  up  with  a  start.  She 
had  been  still  gazing  at  the  blank  wall  before 
her,  and  thinking  her  own  thoughts. 

The  next  morning  Metro  was  starting  early, 
bound  for  the  little  hotel  on  the  quay.  Just  as 
he  had  put  his  foot  on  the  first  step  of  the 
rickety  wooden  staircase  which  led  from  the 
covered  terrace  to  the  courtyard,  Kyra  Sophoula 
came  up  behind  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  Her  short  skirts  were  pinned  up  about  her 
waist,  and  she  held  a  dripping  watering-can  in 
her  hand. 

"You  are  going?" 

"Yes,  I  shall  call  for  the  master;  we  are  going 
up  to  the  Temple  this  morning." 


350       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

*r>  "I  would  say  a  word  to  you  while  Maroussa 
still  sleeps.  Can  I?" 

"Surely,"  and  Metro  returned  to  the  terrace; 
"there  is  no  hurry.'* 

"Metro,  it  is  three  days  now  the  girl  has  been 
here,  and  something  ails  her.  What,  I  do  not 
know,  but  she  is  not  as  she  used  to  be.  Either 
she  sits  as  one  dumb,  and  looks  at  nothing,  or 
else  she  talks  much,  asks  many  questions,  and 
never  listens  to  the  answers.  The  first  day 
many  of  the  neighbors  came  to  see  her;  there 
was  much  noise;  she  talked  with  all,  she  showed 
her  fine  presents  from  the  town,  she  laughed 
with  the  one  and  with  the  other,  but  you  know 
the  saying,  'There  is  white  laughing,  but  there 
is  black  laughing  also.'  And  when  others  talk, 
then  she  sits  with  crossed  hands  and  looks  right 
through  the  house  wall  at  nothing." 

"Yes,"  said  Metro,  "I  have  seen  her." 

"What  is  it,  then,  that  ails  the  girl?"  resumed 
the  old  woman,  puckering  up  her  wrinkles; 
"well  paid  she  was,  and  many  presents  did  she 
get;  now  she  is  back  again  in  her  own  land,  and 
we  have  spent  Easter  together.  What  can  it 
be?" 

"Do  I  know?"  said  Metro;  "a  woman  is  a 
secret  thing." 

"A  woman!   Why,  't  is  true  she  is  a  woman 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    351 

grown  now!  Think  you,  Metro,  she  may  per- 
haps be  wondering  whether  it  be  not  time  for 
what  we  spoke  of  so  often  when  you  were  small 
children  together  —  for  your  marriage?" 

Metro  looked  up  sharply. 

"I  know  not.  Has  she  said  aught  to  you  on 
the  matter,  Kyra  Sophoula?" 

"Not  now,  no,  not  now;  but  last  year  before 
she  went,  once,  when  she  was  helping  me  to 
carry  home  some  bundles  of  herbs,  she  said, 
*When  Metro  is  a  schoolmaster,  perhaps  they 
will  send  him  here  to  help  Kyr  Vangheli;  and 
then  we  shall  be  married  and  it  will  be  well.'" 

"When  did  she  say  this,  at  what  time  of  the 
year?" 

The  old  woman  reflected  for  a  moment.  "The 
dog  onions  were  sprouting,"  she  answered,  "and 
the  cyclamens  were  yet  without  leaves."  Then, 
after  a  pause,  she  ventured  timidly,  "Will  it  be 
soon  now,  my  lad,  that  you  will  be  made  a 
schoolmaster?" 

"No,"  answered  Metro,  coloring,  "I  think 
not." 

A  shade  passed  over  the  old  woman's  face. 
"But  at  least,  —  tell  me  this,  —  you  have  not 
changed  your  mind  about  the  girl?  There  is  no 
one  else,  is  there,  whom  you  would  wish  to 
marry?" 


352       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

Metro  looked  away  over  the  sea.  It  was  very 
early  yet,  and  a  mist  lay  low  over  the  water, 
shrouding  all  the  opposite  mainland  with  a 
thick  white  veil.  The  headland  with  its  houses 
had  not  yet  put  on  its  vivid  Southern  coloring  of 
sun-white  and  green  and  brown  and  blue,  but 
seemed  faintly  indicated  in  two  shades  of  gray. 
A  solitary  boat,  dark  gray  on  silver,  was  advanc- 
ing in  the  foreground,  leaving  a  wide  fan-shaped 
track  in  its  wake.  There  was  something  dream- 
like and  mystic  about  the  whole,  which  a  Boeck- 
lin  might  have  painted. 

It  struck  Metro  as  unfamiliar  and  chilly,  and 
as  he  turned    his    face  again    towards    Kyra 
Sophoula,  he  shivered  slightly. 
-    "No,"  he  said  slowly;  "no,  there  is  no  one 
else." 

"Ah!"  —  Kyra  Sophoula  sighed  joyfully. 
"Shall  I  speak  to  her,  then?" 

"No,"  said  Metro  hurriedly;  "no,  no,  there 
is  time  yet." 

"But  if  the  girl  is  eating  her  heart  out?" 

"There  may  be  another  reason." 

"What  other  can  there  be?" 

Metro  put  his  arm  round  the  bent  old  shoul- 
ders. "Kyra  Sophoula,  do  not  trouble  yourself; 
I  know  Maroussa  well,  I  have  always  known  her; 
whatever  be  the  reason  I  will  find  it  out." 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    353 

"You!" 

"Yes,  I.  Do  not  worry,  and  do  not  hurry 
matters.  I  will  find  out  the  reason,  and  then  all 
shall  be  well." 

Later  on,  when  M.  Arnoux  and  Metro  were 
crossing  the  Narrow  Beach,  the  mist  had  lifted 
entirely,  and  the  day  even  promised  to  become 
a  warm  one.  The  two  were  bound  for  Poseidon's 
Temple  and  perhaps  the  Monastery  on  their 
way  back;  on  the  morrow  they  had  planned  to 
go  across  to  Damala  and  the  Devil's  Bridge, 
and  they  even  talked  of  taking  the  steamer  to 
Hydra  towards  the  end  of  the  week. 

M.  Arnoux  stopped  for  a  moment  to  tighten 
the  strap  of  his  knapsack;  when  he  had  got  it  to 
his  liking  he  found  Metro  standing  quite  still 
and  looking  out  beyond  the  little  cove  they  were 
rounding. 

"At  what  are  you  looking,  my  friend?"  he 
asked;  "what  is  it?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Metro  dreamily;  "noth- 
ing." 

"Then  'nothing'  must  be  very  beautiful." 

Metro  smiled.  "But  indeed  it  is  almost 
nothing  —  can  one  say  what  makes  the  eyes 
glad?  It  is  such  a  trifle  to  put  into  words.  Just 
a  little  white  boat  rocking  over  its  green  shadow, 


354       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

with  the  sound  of  the  ripples  around  it,  and  the 
breeze  lifting  your  hair  from  your  brow  as  you 
look  —  just  that,  and  yet  no  words  to  say  how 
beautiful  it  looks,  and  sounds,  and  feels.  Ah,  I 
cannot  explain  it  at  all.  It  is  a  mystery;  you 
will  laugh  —  ah!"  as  the  old  Frenchman's  eyes 
lighted  up;  "ah!  —  do  you  understand  ?" 
P  "Do  I  understand?  that  beauty  of  light  and 
form  and  sound  and  color  should  be  food  and 
drink  to  you?  —  to  you,  a  Greek!  Ah,  good 
God!  do  I  understand?" 

They  did  not  go  to  the  Monastery  that  day, 
and  it  was  nearly  dark  when  they  left  the  heights. 
Metro  had  imagined  he  knew  the  Temple  of 
Poseidon  well,  that  he  could  have  described 
every  fallen  stone  and  every  broken  fragment 
of  marble,  but  this  day  spent  there  with  M. 
Arnoux  made  him  realize  his  former  ignorance. 
The  deep  technical  knowledge,  the  glowing 
words  of  the  enthusiastic  old  archaeologist,  who 
had  never  been  there  before,  reconstituted 
before  the  lad's  eyes  the  old  temple  in  its  pris- 
tine beauty,  raised  it  up  white  and  shining  in 
the  blue  Greek  air  as  it  had  been  in  the  days  of 
the  glory  of  the  land.  They  spoke  of  the  great 
orator  who  found  death  in  its  sanctuary.  What 
had  formerly  been  but  a  bare  historical  fact  to 
Metro  was  transformed  for  him  into  a  living 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    355 

tragedy.  He  seemed  to  see  Demosthenes  too, 
gray  and  bent  for  his  sixty-three  years,  erst- 
while the  idol  of  the  Athenians,  now  betrayed 
and  deserted,  relentlessly  pursued  from  Athens 
to  Mgina,  and  from  JSgina  to  the  ancient  Cal- 
avria  which  was  the  modern  Poros.  He  fancied 
him  toiling  up  through  the  pines  and  the  myrtle 
bushes,  and  taking  refuge  in  the  Temple.  He 
seemed  to  feel  the  agony  of  mind  with  which 
the  hunted  man  descried  far  away,  on  the  same 
shining  sea  which  lay  gleaming  below  them  now, 
the  triremes  which  carried  his  pursuers,  and  the 
despair  with  which  he  learned  that  their  chief 
was  not  the  noble  Antipater,  who  might  have 
been  expected  to  respect  the  inviolability  of  the 
Temple's  sanctuary,  but  the  low-born  Archises, 
the  despised  actor,  who  had  been  contemptible 
even  as  a  tragedian.  Then  must  the  old  orator 
have  blessed  the  forethought  which  had  pro- 
vided him  with  the  deadly  poison  which  was  to 
save  him  from  falling  into  the  hands  of  so  base 
an  enemy. 

"And  you  know,  Metro,"  wound  up  M. 
Arnoux,  "death  was  not  for  the  ancients  what 
it  would  be  to  us;  their  earliest  teaching,  their 
traditions,  and  the  whole  spirit  of  their  age  made 
it  such  a  matter  of  supreme  importance  to  them 
to  die  nobly  that  the  nobility,  the  beauty  of  the 


356       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

moment  was  all  they  thought  of;  the  actual  fact 
of  the  death  itself  faded  into  insignificance." 

"How  well  you  know  all  these  things,"  said 
Metro  admiringly;  "not  only  what  the  ancients 
said  and  did,  but  even  what  they  thought  and 
felt." 

"My  boy,  I  have  spent  nearly  all  my  life 
among  their  temples,  their  palaces,  their  statues, 
and  their  tombs,  and  sometimes  I  think  part  of 
their  soul  has  passed  into  me." 

Metro  drew  a  long  breath.  "Some  day,  if  I 
can,  I  will  be  like  you." 

"Like  me!"  Arnoux  smiled;  "like  me!" 

He  was  a  poor,  undersized,  thin  little  man  who 
helped  the  younger  students,  and  was  generally 
sent  on  expeditions  too  insignificant  to  take  up 
the  time  of  any  one  else.  He  had  been  a  student 
himself  in  the  French  Archaeological  School 
many  years  ago,  and  had  stayed  on  through 
lack  of  means  and  lack  of  friends,  giving  a  few 
French  lessons  to  support  himself.  Yet  some- 
how even  the  directors,  of  whom  he  had  seen  a 
succession,  had  come  to  depend  on  him  to  an 
extent  they  did  not  themselves  realize.  "Ar- 
noux will  know,"  was  the  universal  answer  to 
any  search  after  a  doubtful  date  or  forgotten 
incident.  When  had  such  an  excavation  taken 
place,  and  was  it  at  Delphi  or  at  Delos  that  this 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    357 

particular  coin  or  vase  had  been  found?  "Oh, 
Arnoux  will  know."  And  Arnoux  did  know 
nearly  always. 

"Like  me!"  he  repeated;  "ah,  no,  my  boy,  I 
am  nothing  now.  Once  there  was  an  opening,  a 
step,  and  I  might  have  mounted,  but  — " 

"A  step?"  interrupted  Metro,  puzzled  by  the 
metaphor. 

"Yes,  a  numismatic  museum  which  was  to  be 
opened  in  Sicily;  I  was  offered  the  direction.  It 
might  have  led  to  higher  things,  but  I  did  not 
care  to  leave  Greece  then;  I  thought  I  was  too 
ignorant,  that  it  was  too  soon  —  ah,  well,  I  have 
understood  it  since;  it  was  a  great  chance 
lost." 

"It  will  return,  perhaps,"  hazarded  Metro. 

"Fortune,  my  friend,  rarely  forgives  a  slight- 
ing of  her  first  offers." 

He  paused  and  looked  out  over  the  bay.  The 
sea  had  lost  its  smoothness  and  was  glittering 
in  a  multitude  of  tiny  ridges. 

"Come,"  he  said;  "enough  of  such  long  past 
matters.  Shall  we  abandon  the  Temple  for  the 
trees?  The  sun  makes  itself  felt,  and  this  moun- 
tain air  revives  the  appetite.  What  good  things 
are  in  the  basket?" 

Metro  followed  him  passively,  and  a  warm 
aromatic  breeze  blew  gently  across  their  faces 


358        TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

as  they  reached  the  shadow  of  the  wide-spread- 
ing pine. 

The  next  day  was  spent  entirely  on  the  main- 
land, between  the  Tower  of  Theseus  and  the 
Devil's  Bridge.  They  were  crossing  the  plain 
of  Damala  on  their  return  when  Metro  suddenly 
stopped  short  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  old 
man's  arm. 

"Look,  master!"  he  said. 

It  was  before  sunset,  and  a  sharp  bend  of  the 
path  had  brought  them  in  sight  of  the  whole 
island  rising  out  of  a  golden  sea.  The  white 
houses,  dyed  pink  by  the  last  rays  of  the  sun, 
rose  tier  above  tier  up  to  the  old  mill  on  the 
summit  of  the  hill.  Among  the  mass  of  olives  on 
the  plain  the  blossoming  peach  trees  made  flecks 
of  rosy  froth.  To  their  left  the  Mountain  of  the 
Sleeper  lay,  more  deeply  asleep  than  ever  at 
this  hour,  little  sunset  clouds  floating  over  the 
updrawn  knees,  the  head  thrown  back,  its 
gigantic,  clear-cut  features  standing  out  with 
startling  distinctness  against  the  yellow  sky. 
Not  a  tree  marred  its  perfect  outline  nor  the 
deep  violet  of  its  chasms. 

M.  Arnoux  looked  back  at  Metro.  "I  have 
rarely  seen  anything  so  beautiful,  my  boy." 

"Did  I  say  too  much?' V 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    359 

"How  could  you  say  enough?  Have  words 
colors  and  lines?" 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  M.  Arnoux  said  suddenly,  "And  now 
what  of  the  future,  my  friend?  If  we  are  to 
make  an  archaeologist  of  you  some  day,  it  is 
none  too  soon  to  begin.  Shall  I  say  a  word  about 
you  when  we  return?  Will  you  come  with  Tar- 
nier  and  me  to  Delos  next  month?  It  is  always 
good  for  you  while  waiting  for  better." 

Metro  looked  down.  "I  fear  it  is  impossible." 

"Impossible!  Bah!  And  why,  if  you  please? 
You  love  the  work,  and  your  head,  as  you 
Greeks  say,  is  not  filled  with  straw.  Besides, 
you  said  yesterday  that  you  wished  to  follow 
in  my  footsteps,  unworthy  though  they  be." 

"I  wish  —  oh!  how  do  I  not  wish?  But  I  am 
not  alone;  the  old  woman  is  wondering  when  I 
shall  at  last  be  a  schoolmaster  and  have  a  place. 
She  does  not  say  much,  but  I  know  it  is  in  her 
mind.  She  longs  for  the  time  when  I  might  be 
appointed  to  teach  in  the  Government  schools 
here.  Once,"  and  he  smiled  faintly,  "I  too 
thought  there  could  be  nothing  better.  In  six 
months  more,  if  I  worked  hard,  it  might  be. 
And  also  —  there  is  the  girl.  Kyra  Sophoula 
thinks  she  is  pining.  And  we  might  soon  be  able 
to  marry  now  if  I  had  fixed  pay." 


360       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

The  old  man  gathered  his  brows  together 
thoughtfully. 

"But  you  are  young  yet,  my  boy.  Will  you 
chain  yourself  to  one  place  so  early  in  life?  Yes, 
yes,  I  repeat  it,  chain  yourself.  Your  island  is 
beautiful,  but  it  is  an  island,  and  a  tiny  one.  The 
young  girl  is  charming  also,  but  — " 

"She  is  a  good  girl,"  said  Metro  soberly; 
"and  we  have  always  said  this  should  be." 

"A  good  girl,  a  good  girl;  who  said  the  con- 
trary?" grumbled  the  old  man;  "but  very  soon 
that  same  goodness,  seasoned  with  naught  but 
the  gossip  from  the  fountain,  would  send  you 
mad.  7  know  you.  Can  you  look  me  in  the 
face  and  tell  me  honestly  that  you  do  not  care 
to  see  more  of  the  world,  —  to  see,  to  learn,  to 
digest,  to  grow?  Can  you,  Metro?  Can  you?" 

Metro  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at  the  huge 
mass  of  the  Sleeper.  At  other  times  it  was  as 
though  it  guarded  the  entrance  to  the  port; 
now  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  blocking  the  exit. 

"It  is  best  not  to  talk  of  these  things,"  he 
answered  slowly. 

It  was  a  cool,  breezy  morning  when  they 
started  for  Hydra  in  the  steamer  four  days  later. 
Clouds  looking  like  snow  mountains  were  piled 
across  a  vividly  blue  sky.  To  their  right  as  they 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    361 

steamed  up  the  narrow  passage  which  has  given 
its  name  to  the  island,  the  olive-planted  slopes 
melted  away  into  the  higher  hills;  on  the  Poros 
side  the  houses  rose  from  the  sea  to  the  great 
brown  rock  which  juts  out  above  the  headland. 
Houses  of  all  colors,  white,  blue,  pink,  cream, 
yellow;  houses  with  flat  roofs,  houses  with  stone 
terraces,  houses  with  vine-covered  balconies, 
houses  with  rickety  wooden  staircases  leading 
from  story  to  story  outside  the  walls,  houses  of 
all  shapes  and  sizes  and  conditions,  from  a  brand- 
new  two-storied  green-shuttered  villa  to  tumble- 
down huts  and  sheds.  There  were  narrow  flights 
of  stone  steps  leading  down  to  the  quay  between 
high  walls,  and  women  with  pitchers  on  their 
shoulders  climbing  up  and  down. 

So  close  to  the  land  did  the  steamer  pass  that 
some  of  the  younger  girls  recognized  Metro  as 
he  stood  on  the  deck,  and  smiled  at  him. 

"Look,"  he  said  to  his  companion;  "do  they 
not  look  like  some  of  the  ancient  figures  on  the 
vases  in  the  Museum?  And  see,  when  they  lift 
an  arm  up  to  poise  the  pitcher,  what  a  fine  curve 
it  makes  against  the  sky." 

"Ah!"  said  M.  Arnoux,  "some  one  has  ex- 
pressed that  better.  Wait  a  moment  —  ah,  yes," 
—  and  he  recited  slowly :  — 


362       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

'  Voici  bien,  6  Jacob,  le  geste  dont  tes  filles 
Savent,  en  avancant  d'un  pas  jamais  trop  prompt, 
Soutenir  noblement  1'amphore  sur  leur  front. 
Ellea  vont,  avec  un  sourire  taciturne, 
Et  leur  forme  s'ajoute  a  la  forme  de  1'urne, 
Et  tout  leur  corps  n'est  plus  qu'un  vase  svelte,  auquel 
Le  bras  leve  dessine  une  anse  sur  le  ciel! 

Do  you  understand,  Metro?" 

"Yes,  it  is  beautiful.  Who  said  it?" 

"A  great  poet." 

"When  did  he  live?" 

"He  lives  still,  thank  God." 

Farther  on  there  were  groups  of  bright- 
colored  boats  moored  to  the  sea  wall,  and  great 
heavy  caiques  with  green  shadows  running  down 
in  long  wavy  lines  under  their  bows.  There 
were  old  men,  too,  mending  nets  which  were 
stretched  across  the  quay  on  forked  sticks, 
children  running  about  everywhere,  and  here 
and  there  the  white  spot  of  a  foustanella. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  village  stands  a  soli- 
tary tall  palm  sharply  outlined  against  the  sky, 
with  its  hanging  clusters  of  orange-colored 
dates,  dwarfing  the  surrounding  houses  by  its 
great  height.  Then  the  Rock  of  the  Cross  came 
in  sight,  with  the  tiny  white  chapel  under  its 
shadow;  then  out  they  steamed  to  the  open  sea, 
the  little  island  fortress  of  Bourtzi  before  them, 
and  away  to  the  east  the  wonderful  Modi,  that 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE 

perfect  lion-shaped  rock  with  its  grandly  hewn 
head,  outstretched  paws,  and  raised  flanks. 

They  spent  all  that  afternoon  in  Hydra, 
climbing  up  and  down  its  steep  rocky  steps, 
visiting  the  old  historic  houses  with  their  carved 
ceilings  and  marble  fountains,  standing  in  the 
cloister-like  terraces  and  looking  down  between 
the  narrow  stone  pillars  over  this  quaint,  heroic, 
barren  little  island  with  no  spot  of  verdure  any- 
where about  it.  They  strolled  about  the  quay 
wondering  at  the  Dutch-like  cleanliness  around 
them.  They  lingered  in  the  old  church  near  the 
sea,  and  were  shown  the  massive  Louis  XVI 
chandelier,  which  tradition  avers  was  saved  from 
the  sack  of  Versailles  and  brought  over  by  an 
adventurous  sea  captain.  They  looked  up  at  the 
historic  bell,  the  identical  one  which  used  to 
summon  the  brave  islanders  to  war  councils 
and  warn  them  of  the  approach  of  the  Turkish 
ships. 

It  was  not  till  early  the  next  morning,  which 
was  Sunday,  that  they  returned  to  Poros. 

"Where  shall  we  go  this  afternoon?"  asked 
M.  Arnoux  of  Metro  as  they  disembarked  on 
the  quay;  "shall  it  be  to  the  Seven  Mills?" 

"We  will  go  there  to-morrow,  if  you  like," 
answered  Metro;  "to-day  perhaps  you  may 
have  some  writing,  or  if  you  care  to  go  anywhere 


364       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

else  I  will  tell  Mantho  to  show  you  the  way. 
For  me,  I  must  go  out  with  Maroussa." 

"Ah!"  smiled  M.  Arnoux,  with  a  lifting  of  the 
eyebrows;  "it  is  an  appointment?" 

"No,  but  I  promised  Kyra  Sophoula  I  would 
find  out  why  the  girl  is  troubling  herself,  and 
I  shall  do  it  to-day." 

Poor  Maroussa's  reason  was  not  hard  to  dis- 
cover. The  reason,  the  sole  and  only  reason, 
was  a  certain  handsome  dark-eyed  young  joiner 
in  Larissa,  who  had  often  worked  about  the 
house  there,  and  who  had  won  her  heart  with 
a  speed  and  simplicity  which  could  only  be 
accounted  for  by  the  fact,  as  he  told  Maroussa 
twenty  times  over,  that  it  was  "written  so"  in 
their  book  of  Fate.  Her  lady  had  approved  of 
the  young  man,  had  told  Maroussa  she  could 
not  do  better,  and  had  even  offered  to  write 
and  explain  matters  to  her  grandmother.  But 
she,  poor  child,  had  refused  with  tears,  and  had 
returned  home  with  a  heavy  heart.  She  loved 
Yoryi,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  her  that  this  could 
alter  the  fact  that  she  would  have  to  marry 
Metro  as  soon  as  he  was  appointed  a  regular 
schoolmaster.  Had  it  not  always  been  planned 
so  from  the  time  they  were  small  children? 
Yoryi  was  quite  a  stranger  to  Poros;  he  was  even 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    365 

a  stranger  in  Larissa,  having  gone  there  from 
Constantinople.  The  first  thing  her  grandmother 
would  ask  would  be,  Who  knew  his  people  and  his 
family?  Besides,  who  had  ever  heard  of  a  decent 
maid  choosing  her  own  husband?  And  Metro? 
—  how  could  she  ever  tell  him?  No,  no,  it  was 
impossible.  She  supposed  she  would  feel  better 
when  she  was  once  married :  Metro  was  so  good ; 
no  one  knew  better  than  she  how  good  and  kind; 
but  sometimes  she  would  burst  into  tears  while 
trying  to  fix  her  mind  on  his  kindness. 

She  was  drying  her  eyes  furtively  by  the  win- 
dow this  Sunday  afternoon  when  he  called  her. 
"Come,"  he  said;  "let  us  go  up  there." 
They  passed  under  the  dark  arch,  crossed  the 
marketplace,  walked  along  the  sea,  and  the 
Narrow  Beach,  turning  to  the  left  till  they 
reached  Barba  Nicola's  wineshop,  where  two 
new  little  white  kittens  were  tumbling  over  the 
old  white  cat  on  the  doorstep.  Then  they  turned 
upward  along  the  white  wall  round  the  red 
house,  following  it  till  they  came  to  the  little 
postern  gate  at  the  top  of  the  hill ;  on  past  the 
white  wall  along  the  hillside,  through  the  thyme 
and  the  lentisk  bushes,  leaving  the  first  bay 
shining  below  them  on  their  left,  and  standing 
at  last  beside  the  solitary  olive  tree  and  the  flat 
rock  over  Boudouri's  monument.  The  sea  all 


366       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

around  them  was  one  quivering  sheet  of  gold, 
and  little  pink  clouds  rested  on  the  knees  of  the 
great  Sleeper. 

They  sat  in  their  old  place  under  the  tree,  and 
Metro  at  once  commenced  talking  to  Maroussa 
in  a  low  tone  and  with  half-averted  face.  He 
spoke  of  their  childhood  together,  of  the  good 
old  woman  who  had  loved  them  both  so  well,  and 
had  made  so  many  sacrifices  for  him,  sacrifices 
which  Maroussa,  had  she  been  other  than  she 
was,  might  have  resented.  He  hoped  to  repay 
both  of  them,  he  said,  by  caring  for  them  and 
protecting  them  for  as  long  as  he  lived.  He  con- 
fessed he  had  not  worked  as  hard  as  he  might 
have  done  lately  for  his  schoolmaster's  diploma. 
He  had  been  thinking  too  much  of  other  mat- 
ters, —  never  mind  what,  —  but  that  was  over 
now,  and  in  six  months,  if  things  went  well,  he 
might  be  in  a  position  to  be  appointed,  and 
then  —  why,  then,  if  Maroussa  wished  —  there 
was  no  reason  why  they  should  not  be  married. 
Kyra  Sophoula,  he  ended  hurriedly,  would  be 
glad  to  see  the  day;  so  very  glad,  poor  old 
woman. 

Maroussa,  utterly  incapable  as  she  was  of 
putting  into  words  or  even  into  definite  thought 
the  rapid  changes  of  feeling  through  which  she 
was  passing,  was  yet  most  keenly  sensitive  to 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    367 

the  difference  between  Yoryi's  ardent  if  rough 
wooing,  and  these  quiet,  almost  impersonal 
promises  of  kindness  and  protection.  A  sudden 
indescribable  dreariness  seemed  to  envelop  her, 
a  long  weary  vista  of  colorless  years  to  stretch 
out  before  her,  and  a  gray  veil  seemed  drawn 
over  the  glowing  beauty  of  land  and  sea.  She 
opened  her  lips  twice,  but  no  sound  escaped 
them.  At  last  she  rose  and  commenced  picking 
at  the  bark  of  the  tree  beside  her;  then  she  spoke 
in  a  toneless  voice. 

"I  will  not  spoil  your  heart's  desire,  Metro. 
Whenever  you  and  my  grandmother  wish  it,  it 
shall  be.  I  —  I  shall  be  content." 

Metro  sprang  forward.  "Maroussa!  look  at 
me.  Will  you  be  quite  content?  —  entirely  con- 
tent?" 

She  tried  to  answer,  but  in  vain.  A  vision  of 
laughing  dark  eyes  rose  before  her,  and  she  flung 
herself  face  downward  in  a  wild  passion  of 
weeping. 

In  a  moment  Metro  was  beside  her;  she  was 
soothed,  encouraged,  questioned  all  in  a  breath, 
and  in  a  moment  more  her  whole  story  was 
poured  out  to  him  in  hurried,  broken,  discon- 
nected words,  but  vibrating  with  passion  and 
irresistibly  convincing.  Her  lady  —  Metro  need 
only  ask  her  lady,  to  learn,  to  be  assured  what 


368       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

sort  of  a  man  Yoryi  was,  how  highly  they 
thought  of  him,  how  clever  he  was,  what  a 
worker ! 

"Is  he  a  good  honest  lad,  Maroussa?  —  what 
we  should  call  a  good  lad  here  on  the  island?" 

She  caught  her  breath  with  a  little  sobbing 
laugh.  "He  is  a  good  lad,  Metro." 

"Then  it  shall  be.  Rest  content." 

Returning  home  they  discussed  plans  for  a 
long  time:  what  Metro  should  write  and  do; 
whether  now  that  poor  Vasili  was  dead  there  was 
not  an  opening  on  the  island  for  a  good  joiner, 
since  Yoryi  had  told  Maroussa  that  there  was 
little  work  for  newcomers  in  Larissa. 

"And  yet,  Metro,  you  do  not  know  what  a 
clever  workman  he  is;  better  than  most.  In  time 
he  could  work  in  Athens,  I  am  sure." 

"Ah,  but  your  grandmother,"  said  Metro; 
"she  could  never  live  away  from  here." 

Maroussa  looked  embarrassed.  "I  did  not 
mean  now,  of  course." 

"Ah!  I  see;  you  meant  later  on — after- 
wards." 

"Well,"  said  Maroussa,  half  apologetically, 
"it  is  natural;  we  are  the  young  ones." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  he  said  hurriedly;  "it 
is  natural." 

Suddenly  she  stopped  short.  They  were  near 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE 

the  house.    "Oh!  Metro,  —  Yiayia,  —  how  can 
I  tell  her?" 

"Say  nothing,  nothing  at  all.  We  must  wait 
some  days  and  think.  It  will  seem  strange  and 
perhaps  hard  to  the  old  woman.  Say  nothing, 
Maroussa.  I  will  make  her  understand  when  the 
time  comes." 

But  the  time  came  sooner  than  he  intended. 
Events  were  precipitated  by  a  letter  which  came 
the  next  day  for  M.  Arnoux,  and  which  he  read 
to  Metro  in  an  unsteady  voice  as  they  stood 
together  on  the  steps  of  the  tiny  post-office.  It 
was  the  unexpected  which  had  happened.  It 
was  Fortune  who,  contrary  to  all  precedent,  had 
forgiven  his  first  slighting  of  her  gifts,  and  was 
offering  him  a  second  chance.  And  by  a  strange 
coincidence  it  was  once  more  the  curatorship 
of  a  private  museum  which  was  offered  to  him. 
But  this  time  it  was  in  Paris!  And  not  merely 
a  numismatic  museum,  but  a  most  important 
collection  of  antiquities  gathered  together  by 
one  of  the  richest  of  French  amateurs,  who  after 
long  years  of  travel  wished  to  settle  at  last  in 
France,  so  that  his  countrymen  might  also  enjoy 
the  fruit  of  his  lifetime  of  toil  and  research. 
M.  Arnoux  had  been  warmly  recommended  to 
him,  and  he  now  offered  him  the  chief  direction 


370       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

of  his  museum,  allowing  him  perfect  freedom 
to  select  his  own  assistant,  there  being  too  much 
work  for  one  man,  however  clever  and  inde- 
fatigable. 

"And  of  course,"  concluded  the  old  man,  as 
with  trembling  hands  he  folded  up  the  letter, 
"of  course,  there  is  but  one  assistant  I  wish  for. 
Will  you  come  with  me  to  Paris,  my  friend?" 

Metro's  wildest  castles  in  the  air  were  too 
suddenly  transformed  into  solid  structures,  and 
he  was  still  staggering  under  the  shock. 

"Monsieur  Arnoux  —  Master  —  I  —  I  do  not 
know.  There  is  so  much  to  think  of,  to  see. 
Perhaps  —  if  you  would  give  me  a  little  time? 
—  some  hours?" 

"But  certainly,  my  boy,  certainly.  Only  if 
possible  I  should  like  to  send  an  answer  to-mor- 
row." 

"This  evening  I  will  tell  you." 

It  was  long  past  sunset  when  they  stood  to- 
gether again  on  the  shore  a  little  beyond  Barba 
Nicola's  wineshop.  Among  the  soft  curves  of  the 
pines  to  the  west  a  slim  young  cypress  pointed 
upward.  The  deep  blue  of  the  sky  was  fading 
to  a  dusky  yellow  where  it  met  the  outlines  of 
the  hills.  The  plants  in  the  stone  vases  on  the 
terrace  of  the  red  house  were  losing  their  color 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    371 

and  blending  into  one  mass  with  the  trees  be- 
yond. There  was  a  gleam  of  white  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  sea  which  the  lights  of  an  ironclad  in 
the  harbor  streaked  with  wavering  golden  re- 
flections. 

M.  Arnoux  looked  grave,  almost  troubled. 

"And  so,  decidedly,  it  is  yes?" 

"It  is  yes." 

"See,  how  strange!"  said  the  old  man  medi- 
tatively; "it  is  I,  now,  who  hesitate  and  wonder 
if  the  responsibility  I  take  on  myself  be  not  too 
great?" 

"There  is  no  responsibility;  I  decide  freely." 

"You  must  weigh  the  cost  well." 

"I  have  weighed  it." 

"How  can  you  weigh  it, being  in  ignorance?" 
asked  M.  Arnoux  in  an  impatient  tone  of  voice. 
"What  can  you  know  of  the  outside  world?  If 
Athens  confused  you,  Paris  will  overpower  you; 
if  you  felt  timid  and  forlorn  in  your  own  country 
where  all  around  you  spoke  your  own  language, 
you  will  feel  terrified  and  lost  in  ours,  five  days' 
journey  away  from  the  sound  of  a  familiar  voice. 
Instead  of  hills,  pines,  and  sea,  instead  even  of 
the  white  houses  of  Athens  with  the  Acropolis 
at  one  end  and  the  olive  grove  at  the  other,  you 
will  feel  crushed  by  interminable  lines  of  tall 
gray  houses,  with  very  often  a  dark  rainy  sky 


372       TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

above  them.  Instead  of  going  from  place  to 
place  over  blue  water  in  your  graceful  bratseres 
and  caiques,  you  will  ride  in  crowded  trams  over 
muddy  streets,  or  in  stuffy  trains  through  under- 
ground tunnels." 

"And  yet,"  said  Metro  with  a  slight  smile, 
"you  have  so  often  spoken  to  me  of  the  beauty 
of  Paris." 

"Oh!  I  have  spoken  —  I  have  spoken  —  cer- 
tainly I  have  spoken,  but  — " 

"But  you  see  I  remember  all  you  have  said, 
Master." 

"You  will  be  lonely,"  persisted  the  old  man. 

"I  shall  be  lonely,  yes,  but  there  will  be  work 
to  do.  I  shall  learn  — " 

"Oh!  you  will  learn,  no  doubt  of  that,  but 
whether  you  will  be  happy  in  the  learning  is 
another  question." 

"That  will  not  matter  since,  I  shall  learn." 

"Things  will  not  seem  so  easy  as  they  do  here, 
nor  life  so  simple." 

"It  does  not  seem  very  simple  now." 

"There  will  be  no  neighbors  there,  remember; 
only  people  who  live  next  door." 

"But—" 

"Ah!  you  think  that  is  all  one,  my  friend;  it  is 
very  much  two,  as  you  will  find  out.  You  will 
not  be  'Metro'  any  longer,  not  —  how  do  they 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    373 

call  you  here?  —  'Anthi's  Metro.'  You  will  be 
merely  an  unknown  young  man,  a  cipher,  a 
nothing." 

"But  I  do  not  expect  to  be  something,"  said 
the  poor  lad  patiently;  "how  should  it  be  pos- 
sible that  I  could  be  as  well  known  as  you,  in 
your  own  country?" 

"As  I!  Oh,  the  poor  lad !  He  will  never  under- 
stand. I!  —  in  Paris!  Why,  in  all  probability  I 
shall  live  on  some  fifth  floor,  and  it  will  only  be 
at  the  approach  of  New  Year  that  my  concierge 
will  remember  I  happen  to  be  called  'M.  Ar- 
noux';  for  the  rest  of  the  year  I  shall  be  'le 
petit  vieux  du  cinquieme.' " 

"And  may  not  I  live  close  by  on  some  other 
fifth,  or  perhaps  sixth  floor,  and  come  and  talk 
to  the  'petit  vieux'  sometimes  after  work?" 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a 
moment,  and  then  the  gray  mustache  twitched 
and  a  little  tender  smile  came  into  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  my  boy,  you  shall,  you  shall.  I  am  a 
cross  old  brute,  but  God  knows  how  I  wish  to 
have  you  with  me.  But,  there!  what  will  you? 
—  for  a  moment  I  was  afraid.  Yet  have  I  not 
always  said  it  would  be  a  shame  to  bury  you 
here?  You  shall  come,  you  shall  see5  you  shall 
learn,  and  in  less  than  no  time  we  shall  make  a 
splendid  archaeologist  of  you." 


374        TALES  OF  A  GREEK  ISLAND 

"An  archaeologist!  Ah,  no,  not  yet!  that 
means  one  who  knows  about  the  ancients  and 
their  great  deeds,  and  their  wonderful  art.  It 
will  not  be  true  of  me  for  a  long  time  yet.  Say 
rather  one  who  loves  archaeology." 

"Very  well:  a  new  word  shall  be  coined  for 
your  modesty.  Archaeo — phile,  shall  we  say? 
Being  new,  it  will  be  the  better  remembered. 
You  see,  my  friend,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  you 
must  learn  first  how  modern  educated  people 
live  before  they  will  let  you  teach  them  how  the 
ancients  thought  and  worked  and  acted.  You 
might  learn  in  Athens  certainly,  but  they  will 
scarcely  give  you  the  opportunity." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  said  Metro;  "you 
mean  — ' 

"I  mean  that  humanity  is  the  same  every- 
where, and  that  if  your  labor  and  your  teaching 
are  ever  to  be  taken  into  consideration,  you 
must  make  people  entirely  forget  that  you  are 
just  Metro  from  Poros,  and  return  from  abroad 
as  Monsieur  Demetrius  —  what  was  your 
father's  name?" 

"Tasso." 

"Tasso?  Tasso  what?" 

"Oh!  Philippides." 

"As  Monsieur  Demetrius  Philippides,  then." 

Metro  smiled  gravely.   "If  it  be  necessary  I 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    375 

will  return  as  Monsieur  Demetrius  Philippides." 
Then,  after  a  moment's  pause  he  added:  "Also 
shall  not  I  earn  more  in  Paris  than  I  could  do 
here  for  a  long  time  yet?" 

M.  Arnoux  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  "certainly  you  will  earn 
more.  The  pay  is  good  for  a  beginner." 

"You  see,"  explained  the  lad  simply,  "the 
old  woman  cannot  work  much  longer,  and  the 
man  whom  I  told  you  Maroussa  will  marry  has 
not  much  money  yet." 

M.  Arnoux  let  his  hand  fall  on  Metro's 
shoulder. 

"Ah !  yes,  my  friend;  as  you  say,  la  bonne  mere 
must  not  work  much  longer."  Then,  in  a  little 
he  asked,  "Have  you  told  her?" 

"No,"  answered  Metro  in  a  low  voice;  "not 
yet.  I  told  Maroussa  to  wait;  that  I  would 
speak  to  her  grandmother  and  make  her  under- 
stand. I  meant  to  wait  a  few  days.  But  now  it 
must  be  for  to-morrow." 

Kyra  Sophoula  was  sitting  alone  the  next 
evening  on  her  little  covered  terrace.  Her 
spindle  was  in  her  hand,  but  she  was  not  spin- 
ning. The  echo  of  the  sunset  gun  was  just  dying 
away  in  the  hills  and  the  flag  had  been  lowered 
on  the  tower  of  the  Naval  School.  From  the 


376        TALES  OF  A   GREEK   ISLAND 

man-of-war  in  the  bay  the  strains  of  the  Na- 
tional Hymn  rose  on  the  quiet  air;  then  after 
a  pause  came  the  evening  psalm,  "O  Lord, 
our  Lord,  how  excellent  is  thy  name  in  all 
the  earth ! "  Then  silence,  broken  only  now  and 
then  by  the  soft  dip  of  the  oars  of  some  belated 
trata. 

Metro  had  been  sitting  with  her  since  early 
in  the  afternoon.  They  had  talked  long  together, 
but  he  had  gone  now.  Maroussa  had  been  spend- 
ing the  day  with  Viola,  Mantho's  wife,  to  help 
her  with  some  sewing  for  the  little  one,  and 
Kyra  Sophoula  had  sent  Metro  to  fetch  the  girl 
home.  She  had  sent  him  off  with  a  smile,  and 
she  would  be  ready  to  welcome  them  back  with 
brave  words  when  they  returned  in  a  little  while; 
but  now  that  she  was  alone  she  sat  very  quiet 
and  motionless,  for  Kyra  Sophoula  had  under- 
stood at  last,  and  her  heart  was  heavy  with  the 
weight  of  her  new  knowledge.  "Better,"  she 
muttered,  shaking  her  head,  "better  I  had  never 
known;  better  there  had  been  nothing  to  know." 
Better,  indeed;  for  what  could  this  new  know- 
ledge mean  to  her?  It  meant  that  none  of  her 
daydreams  would  come  to  pass;  it  meant  not 
only  that  her  boy  Metro  and  her  own  grand- 
child, the  only  one  of  her  blood  left  to  her,  were 
not  to  come  together,  not  to  spend  their  lives 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    377 

under  the  same  roof,  not  to  stand  both  together 
by  her  side  to  close  her  eyes  when  her  time  came, 
but  also  that  they  were  content,  nay,  wishful  to 
remain  apart.  It  meant,  this  new  knowledge,  a 
stranger  in  the  house  in  the  near  future,  a  new 
face  to  look  at,  a  new  voice  to  listen  to.  The 
youth  was  doubtless  a  good  one  —  but  strange, 
strange  —  and  she  was  old.  It  meant  —  ah!  it 
meant  Metro  going  away  again;  and  farther  this 
time  than  Athens,  much  farther,  to  strange 
lands  and  among  strange  people.  Kyra  Sophoula 
let  her  spindle  drop  with  a  rattle  on  the  wooden 
floor,  and  the  gray  old  head  fell  forward  on  her 
breast.  She  was  old,  very  old,  and  she  wished 
she  had  never  understood. 

Once  more,  as  in  years  gone  by,  Metro  came 
down  to  the  quay  to  wait  for  the  steamer  to 
Piraeus.  Once  more  Maroussa  was  there  to  see 
him  off;  not  as  then  a  poor  disconsolate  little 
maid  in  a  yellow  cotton  frock,  but  a  tall  hand- 
some girl  hanging  on  his  arm,  happy,  smiling, 
grateful,  and  sisterly.  Once  more  Kyra  Sophoula 
had  made  pretext  of  urgent  work  at  home, 
adding  that  the  return  to  the  house  was  too 
steep  for  her.  But  Metro  had  spoken  to  Yan- 
noula,  and  she  had  promised  him  that  the  old 
woman  should  not  be  left  alone. 


378        TALES  OF  A   GREEK   ISLAND 

Once  more  Metro,  as  he  stood  on  the  quay, 
lifted  up  his  eyes  to  the  hills.  Blue  and  beautiful 
they  surrounded  him,  their  base  half  veiled  in 
quivering  golden  air,  the  summits  outlined 
against  the  noonday  sky  with  that  absolute 
purity  and  delicacy  of  sweeping  line  and  curve 
which  is  perhaps  one  of  the  supreme  beauties  of 
the  land.  And  Metro  gazed  and  gazed  as  though 
to  imprint  their  shape  indelibly  on  his  memory. 
It  was  with  an  effort  he  looked  away  from  them 
when  the  moment  came  to  step  into  the  little 
boat  which  was  to  take  them  out  to  the  steamer. 
Maroussa  and  some  of  the  neighbors  followed 
him  and  M.  Arnoux  on  board,  and  there  was 
much  talking  and  much  exchange  of  good  wishes 
before  the  return  to  the  shore.  The  little  boats 
rowed  back  slowly,  with  much  waving  of  hand- 
kerchiefs and  many  laughing  messages  carried 
back  on  the  breeze. 

Metro  was  standing  at  the  prow  as  they 
steamed  out  towards  the  entrance  of  the  port. 
His  hands  were  tightly  clasping  the  rail  and  he 
did  not  speak,  but  it  seemed  to  the  old  man  who 
was  watching  him  as  though  for  the  space  of  one 
second  all  his  soul  rose  in  his  eyes  as  he  fixed 
them  on  the  rapidly  receding  island. 

Then  the  steamer  turned  round  the  point  by 
the  lighthouse,  and  he  could  see  it  no  longer. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE    379 

M.  Arnoux  laid  his  hand  on  Metro's  shoulder. 

"You  do  not  regret,  my  friend?" 

"No,  oh  no;  I  do  not  regret." 

"And  the  young  girl?  You  are  easy  about 
her?  He  is  a  good  man,  the  one  she  would 
marry?" 

"I  do  not  know  him,  and  of  course  I  shall  in- 
quire much  about  him;  but  I  know  Maroussa, 
and  I  feel  sure  he  will  be  a  good  man." 

"And  the  bonne  mere  will  live  with  them?" 

"Of  course;  where  else?" 

"So  they  will  live  well  all  together?" 

"They  will  live  well." 

Then  their  eyes  met,  and  M.  Arnoux  smiled. 
"How  does  Maroussa  finish  her  fairy  tales, 
Metro?" 

And  Metro  answered  gravely,  "And  we  still 
better." 


THE   END 


(Stfoe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


uc  some*  REGIONAL  UBHARY  FACILITY 


A     000  135  147     7 


